



■ 


P5 3Ä11 ^J.-J.'1-L.:. _ ■-...:..■: 


.LS 

1915 

Copy 




1 


I^HHH 


1 



WHJIE THE FIRE BÜRNS 



AüTOGRAPHSO fiOITlo 




Class 
Book 



j(^ 'X/cn 



Gop>TigtitN?. 



n^^ 



COPWIGHT DEPOSIT. 



While the 
Fire Burns 

By 
ALFRED L. FLUDE 




Published by 

THE PLATFORM 

The Lyceum and Chautauqua Magazfne 
Steinway Hall 

CHICAGO 

1915 



T^: 



I 



Copyrighted, 1915, by Alfred L. Flude 



JUL-I I9i5 

©CIA406549 



k 



While the Fire Burns 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page. 
While The Fire Burns Frontispiece ^ 

The Old Home 18 ' 

Ghosts ..., 66 *" 



CONTENTS 

Page. 

Lighting the Fire 7 

October 10 

About Falling Leaves 11 

The Cricket Song 14 

The Old Home..., 18 

A Memory 21 

November 23 

For What to Be Thankful 24 

Boys and Thanksgiving 27 

How to Carve a Turkey 30 

Signs of Christmas—. 33 

December ., 35 

Bachelor's Quarters 35 

Sparks from the Christmas Fire 37 

A December Rhapsody 42 

Home-Made Christmas Presents 43 

How to Make Them 46 

A Christmas Afterthought 49 

January 50 

January Troubles , 50 

A New Year's Baby 51 



4 CONTENTS 

Page. 

A Baby 's Teeth 55 

A White Hyacinth 55 

The Old Clock 59 

The Little Chair 61 

Dorothy ..., 63 

Ghosts 66 

Separated ...". 70 

Which , 74 

Being Alone 75 

Don't Stagnate 79 

Sleep , 82 

A Piain Book 83 

Square Stieks in Round Holes 85 

Friction 86 

Solitude 88 

The Spider and the Fly...., 90 

Characteristics 92 

Tempers 94 

About Keyholes ^ 96 

February 98 

A Valentine 98 

One Dress ^ 99 

The Shy Young Man 101 



CONTENTS 6 

Page. 

Style 104 

Pure Crankiness ^ 107 

Style vs. Art 108 

What to Read 110 

Success n 113 

The First Beau .....114 

March 117 

A Pleasant Journey...^ 120 

A Modern Miracle 123 

Entre Nous 127 

About Success ^ 130 

A Lullaby 133 

Pretty Dark , 135 

News 138 

Some People vs. Other People 141 

About Umbrellas 144 

April 147 

Sunshine , 149 

The Coming of Spring 151 

The Last Backlog 154 



WHILE THE FIRE 
BURNS 

Ligfhtingf It was a merry time in 

the Fite old England in the years 

of long ago, when the 
yule log was dragged into the great hall 
and set ablaze in the cavernous fireplace. 
As the flames crept about the huge 
trunk, they threw lights and shadows up- 
on the somber tapestried walls until at 
last the whole great room was glowing 
with the light and the children laughed 
and daneed as they watched the flames 
mount higher and higher into the black 
throated chimney. It was the beginning 
of the Christmas festivities. It is with a 
feeling somewhat akin to this that I 
watch the starting of the hard coal fire 
in the fall. It foretells long evenings 
with a book, or simply watching 



8 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

the ghostly flames as they dance 
blue, or green, or yellow, over the 
glowing coals. You, too, liave sat 
and watched the flames, as the fire- 
light threw stränge shadows about you. 
You have seen faces in the embers. And 
the wind, whispering, whispering in the 
chimney, was forever muttering names 
of the long ago. You have watched the 
black coals turn to ashes — fairy Castles 
that trembled in the heat and crumbled 
away. You and I have had Castles of 
hope in the days of old — Castles that 
glimmered and gleamed in the firelight 
of youth, but like these of the grate, they 
too faded and are gone. But we don't 
forget. Other eyes than ours now watch 
these new fires in the fall. They see no 
crumbling Castles. Everything is bright. 
Fairy Castle and elfin gold, happy wish- 
es and gems of hope. All this wealth of 
dreamland was ours in the long ago. It 
is to these firelight fancies that this little 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 9 

volume is dedicated — the fancies of 
youth, gilded by hope^ warmed by home 
love — dreams that never came true but 
that brought a blessing in the very 
dreaming. 



10 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 



Octobef 

Teil ye what's th' month fer me — 
Like it better'n all th' rest — 
Thet's October, when th' days 
Er sort o' veiled with smoky haze, 
An' along th' roads ye see 
Leaves afallin' from th' hedges 
Nature dons her yaller vest. 
Th' days git shorter an' are sorter 
Cool an' frosty round the edges. 
That's th' month I like th' best. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 11 

Aboüt The Summer has gone 

Fallin^ almost before we are 

Leaves ^^^^^- ^^^ ^^^^ ^^' 

crept upon us like a cool 

hand laid upon a hot forehead. I saw a 
few red leaves upon a liard maple to-day 
and was astonished to realize that an- 
other Winter would soon be liere. Of the 
great plans laid out for accomplishment 
during the year, how many have I com- 
pleted ? It is so easy to plan, but so hard 
to accomplish. Before I know it the 
airtumn will be gone and the winter will 
have come. Think of it, you who are go- 
ing to do great things ! You who have 
planned to be wealthy, to be righteous, 
to be famous, all in good time. Think of 
it, you who are preparing, as you hope, 
to make a grand success of life. The 
spring time has already passed with you. 
Perhaps the summer days of manhood 
are slipping away. One day after an- 
other, away they go, and your lives roll 
away in the same old rut. The great 



12 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

deeds will be done "someday." Wealth 
will be reached "soon." 

Ah ! a little later. Tlie leaves begin to 
turn. Summer is past. The chill of the 
Coming winter causes us to shiver as we 
stand alone facing our tasks still undone. 
We try to rekindle the embers of our en- 
thusiasm but they were long ago con- 
sumed, and only the cinders of regret 
remain. We stand and wish that the 
autumn might return to spring; that the 
gray locks might once more become as 
black as night; that the breezes, which 
whisper in the branches and blow against 
our cheeks with the shivering prophesy 
of death, might bring instead the balmy 
promises of another summer; that we 
might once more have a future in which 
to accomplish the deed we dreamed of 
doing long ago. But a still colder breath 
of wind whirls the dying leaves around 
US and we shiver in the blast, knowing 
that it is too late. Yes, my boy, the 
summer has passed for many of us. For 
you, it has just begun. For you, too, it 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 13 

will pass away before you are aware. 
God grant that the autumn will find you 
with tasks completed, ready for the long 
Winter of eternity. 



14 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

The The crickets are chirp- 

Cticket ^^S o^t o^ doors as I 

Q write. It is their last 

song of the summer. 
Several frosty nights have already given 
them warning. Their drowsy whirr is 
pulsating like the pulse of old Dame Na- 
ture herseif. I wonder what they think 
as they sit fiddling the same old tune they 
have played these forty years or more to 
my certain knowledge. Probaluy they 
have been engaged in the execution of 
this same grand chorus since long before 
Adam and Eve were lulled to sleep by 
their squeaky fiddles in the Garden of 
Eden. Their monotonous treble brings 
to mind the summer nights at the old 
horae — yes, years and years ago, I am 
afraid to say how many — when the 
breezes crept under the low hanging pine 
branches and the graceful elm swept the 
roof of the old home with a loving ca- 
ress ; when the odor of phlox and of tube- 
röse was wafted in from the garden. I 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 15 

remember the deep, dark sliadow under 
the rough old oak, and the ruddy lights 
through the red ciirtained Windows; the 
pleasant rooms, the books^, the music, and 
— mother. Do you remember mother? 
It is your mother I mean. The mother 
who laughed over your baby antics, grew 
proud over your boyish triumphs^ and at 
last hid her sad heart beats when you 
left the home fold to win your way in 
the World; the mother whose hair grew 
grey in her care for you, whose heart 
grew humble in the multitude of her 
prayers in your behalf, whose face grew 
more tender as the years marked their 
progress upon her cheeks; whose steps 
faltered and whose hands trembled be- 
cause her buoyance had been given in 
your behalf. The mother who stayed in 
the old home while you were far away, 
like the mother bird in the nest after the 
fledglings had flown. At last there came 
a letter to you written by a stränge band. 
Then you went home, but the old time 



16 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

home was gone f orever. Ah ! I know 
how trivial everything tlien seemed be- 
side mother's love. I know how a kind 
Word of old would have cheered her 
heart. I know how business cares crowd- 
ed out the home letters and how mother 
watched and waited for the tardy mis- 
sives. I know how her heart bled for an 
old time caress, and how she went to rest 
with a prayer on her lips for you— And 
now, it is all too late and the crickets 
play their lonesome melody, while a 
white stone in God's Acre marks where 
mother lies at rest. 

Don't forget mother, my boy, don't 
forget mother, just because you have oth- 
er loves and many cares to occupy your 
attention. Can you not see she is grow- 
ing old? More tenderly, more wistfully 
her eyes foUow you and her fond heart 
aches sometimes for a return of the ca- 
resses she has given her boy. Her step 
is less elastic, now. The roses of her 
cheeks have faded, chilled by the freez- 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS IT 

ing breezes of old age. The snow drifts 
of time lie tenderly upon her temples. 
The record of her care for you — of her 
troubles and her sorrows, is furrowed up- 
on her face. Some day — it will not be 
long — you will walk about the old home 
with hushed footsteps. Into the familiär 
Chamber you will steal to bid goodbye to 
the dear old face so strangely white. And 
while you bend over to catch her parting 
blessing, the Angel of Death will glide 
into her heart and Mother will fall asleep. 



18 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

The Old Tliere was an old liome 

Home in the days gone by 

where the wind in the 
pine trees sang lullabies throughout the 
long Winter evenings and where the blaze 
in the open fireplace threw shifting shad- 
ows about the horae cirele, seeking out 
the familiär faees. Since then, Father 
Time has been busy turning over the 
days and the weeks and the years^ and 
the old home days have long since 
slipped from the string of the present 
into the abyss of the past. And still the 
days and the weeks and the years keep 
stealing away — it is a habit they seem 
to have acquired, of just continually 
stealing away and before we know it, 
they are gone. I sometimes wonder if 
that wonderful chasm of the past will 
ever be filled ; if the days, and the weeks, 
and the years will ever forget to roll 
away; if old Father Time will ever 
weary of turning his hour glass and fall 
asleep, while the sands of time will lie at 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 19 

rest in the bottora of his glass; if night 
will ever forget to follow evening, if eve- 
ning will ever forget to follow noon, if 
you and I will ever forget the flight of 
time and simply rest throughout some 
long, eternal day. 

There was a little bed in the old fash- 
ioned home — white and clean, soft and 
warm, smoothed by gentle hands, guard- 
ed, perhaps, by angels, (for who 
knows?), and I am thinking of it to- 
night. The bed where, long ago, you 
were tucked away at night, drowsy and 
weary, half dreaming and half conscious 
of some one who smoothed the snowy 
pillow, and left only when you were far 
away in a dreamy land of rest. Was 
there ever another cot so soothing to 
tired limbs? Was there ever another 
pillow which brought forgetfulness so 
soon? It was from the little bed you 
saw the stars shine brighter and clearer 
and far more beautiful than they will 
ever shine again. You heard, in the 



20 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

morning, the birds sing clearer and 
sweeter than they sing today. As you 
have grown old, the world has grown old 
as well. It is dingy and gaudy, the paint 
of courtesy has been worn away. The 
sacred fires of the home hearths are all 
that save the old globe from assuming 
an aretie frigidity and the memories of 
the old homes, the gentle mothers, the 
downy beds, the evening prayers, per- 
haps, and the good-night kisses are all 
that are left to warm the hearts of raany 
of US. God bless the memories of all 
good homes. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 21 

A Memory 

An old fashioned cottage, 

Nestled down in the trees 
The Windows wide open 

Inviting the breeze. 



An old fashioned clock 
On an old fashioned shelf. 

In an old fashioned room. 
You remember, yourself. 

How the clock kept a-ticking 
Throughout the long day 

And striking the hours 
In an old fashioned way. 



Some old fashioned flowers 
In the wide window seat 

Flung an old fashioned odor, 
Both dainty and sweet, 

Round the old fashioned chair, 
Where in times long ago 

An old fashioned mother 
Had rocked to and fro, 



22 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Whose hair was as white 
As the blossoming leaves 

In the old fashioned orchard 
Of crabapple trees. 

Whose voice had of old 
Lulled the baby to sleep, 

Singing old fashioned lullabies 
Tender and sweet. 

Whose white, wrinkled hands 
Are now crossed on her breast, 

For the old fashioned mother 
Has entered her rest. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 23 



November 

November's here. Ye miickle folk 
With much o' earthly gear, 

Gae hunt yer capes an' overcoats 
An' other winter wear. 

An' ye who hae no great coat 
To shelter from the storm, 

The Diel miist tak the cursing o't 
The Gilde Lord keep ye warm. 



24 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

For What (It has been no secret 

to bc ihat these little sketches 

Thankfül "were, most of them, 

written long ago. They 
were written when life was new^ and to 
change them now would only dampen 
their ardor, and I can see no good reason 
for making any changes, even though 
time has changed tlie writer.) 

I have been wondering, for what can a 
mere bachelor be thankful? One might 
settle the matter like the little girl who 
prayed, "Oh, Lord, make me glad about 
everything." That would cover the 
ground much more effectively than the 
minister who prayed for half an hour try- 
ing to Cover the ground, then prayed 
again after the doxology because he had 
forgotten to mention the new church Or- 
gan. No, I would not want to thank 
Hirn for everything. That would in- 
clude the pest who robs you of val- 
uable time, selling something you don't 
want; it would include ill temper and all 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 25 

the other dispositions we could do so 
well without. All these may be excel- 
lent correctives in the great plan of life^ 
like the broad strap on the free and easy 
portion of a boy's trousers, but to expect 
a boy to give thanks for a sound thrash- 
ing is carrying the matter too far, and I 
shall not enconrage it. I shall not insult 
the Lord by thanking Hirn for the liberal 
allowance of fools and knaves that have 
rained down upon the earth. But for 
what, do yoii think, should a mere bach- 
elor be thankful? The married man 
says: "I thank Thee for the loved ones 
aboiit my hearth/' but the chairs at the 
bachelor's fireside are empty. There is 
no chance for a little family jar, so he 
wrathfully pokes the fire. There are no 
little shoes lying close to the hearth to 
remind him of two little dimpled feet 
tucked in between white sheets^ so he 
leaves his own number nines there and 
ruefully rubs his corns. The bachelor's 
fireside has no love, no sympathy, no so- 



26 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

ciability, no paregoric on tlie mantel^ no 
midnight alarms, no burglars. 

There are no pleasant faces tliere to 
welcome him home. No pleasant voices 
to remind him he has forgotten to bring 
the buns for supper; no tiny buds of mor- 
tality that cling closer and closer day by 
day to the- heart strings; no wailing 
voices in the wee sma' hours; no happi- 
ness shared; no raiseries divided; no dis- 
cussion; no love in a cottage; no quarreis 
in a palace; no discord; no harmony; no 
anything. In a case like that, if you were 
a mere bachelor, for what would you be 
thankful? 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 27 

Boys and Let the good old parson 

Thanksgiving preach his Thanksgiving 
serraon to gray heads; 
let him address his remarks to Brother 
Goodygood and Sister Benevolence. 
What have boys to do with Thanksgiving 
sermons anyway? No^, sir ! No sermon 
on Thanksgiving day for the boy. The 
day has an entirely different significance 
for him. It means turkey with cranberry 
sauce; it means mince pies and pumpkin 
pies, and perhaps eustard pies; it means 
the biggest and best dinner of all the 
year, that's what Thanksgiving day 
means for the boy. Yes, and it hints at 
skating or football^ perhaps, and a gen- 
eral frolic all day long — office hours from 
seven a. m. tili ten p. m., with two hours 
for dinner. It means that for once in the 
whole year the average boy can feel real- 
ly satisfied as to the cravings of his stom- 
ach for at least half the afternoon. On 
Thanksgiving day boys with delicate ap- 
petites have been known to experience no 



28 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

longing for food for three hours after din- 
ner. But this is exceptional. The old 
joke about the small boy keeping the doc- 
tor busy next day is a myth. The small 
boy is too busy the next day eating what 
is left of the turkey and the other relics of 
the feast to have any time for the doctor. 
It is the old folks who hardly dared to try 
a piece of the wing or one slice of the 
breast, who keep the doctor busy. It is 
aecording to the Bible doctrine: "To him 
that hath shall be given, and to him that 
hath not shall be taken away even that 
which he hath." But the small boy's tur- 
key never goes back on him. His mince 
pie really acts as a poultice to his stom- 
ach, and if he ever has pleasant dreams 
they come on Thanksgiving night, wlien 
his little belly is so füll that the Covers on 
his bed refuse to be tucked in as usual. 
Right and proper it is that we should 
listen to the good pastor on that day. The 
church bells peal out a pleasant welcome 
in honor of the occasion, but save no peAvs 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 29 

for the small boy. Thanksgiving needs 
him out of doors, and he is too busy for a 
mere sermon. He feels it his duty to de- 
velop an appetite for the day and a duty 
so much to his liking, he will never 
neglect. 



30 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

How to Tlianksgiving day in 

Catve a drawing near, and al- 

Turkey ^^^^^ *^^^ turkey is 

stretching his joints to 
make them tough against the festal day. 
A few suggestions from one of experience 
in carving may prove beneficial to those 
who are more familiär with tlie easy sur- 
gery of a round steak than with the more 
difficult dismemberment of a gobbler. 

When the fowl is placed before you, as- 
sume a confident manner. It will inspire 
a sense of security in those about you. 

Keep the turkey on the platter. It is 
not now considered in good taste to carve 
it on the table cloth or to hold it in place 
with one knee. 

Should it slip from the platter into 
your lap^ restore it to its place on 
the platter before continuing to hunt for 
the lost Joint. As before suggested, how- 
ever, it is best to keep the turkey on the 
platter while carving. 

The carving fork should be inserted 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 31 

firmly in the breast^ as it is now usually 
considered better to steady the bird by 
the fork, rather than by grasping it by 
the neck with one band. This, however, 
is a mere matter of personal opinion. In 
the meantime, however, keep the turkey 
on the platter. 

The leg is fastened to the body by a 
Joint. Hunt for it patiently, Don't try 
to cut the bone in two. Should the Joint 
be refractory, quietly ask the hostess for 
a saw. Watch the fowl suspiciously, for 
in such a moment as ye think not it will 
take unto itself wings and fly into your 
fair neighbor's lap. 

At this point a story, told in your best 
vein of humor, will help matters amaz- 
ingly and leave the waiting guests in 
good spirits — especially if you keep that 
turkey on the platter. 

Dismember a wing or two. Bear down 
on the Joint. If the thing slips and shoves 
the dressing from the platter to the table 
cloth, make light of the incident as a 



32 WHILE THE FIRE BITRNS 

commonplace matter and teil liow yoii 
used to carve ducks in Minnesota. 

Then go for the wishbone. Promise 
the young miss on your riglit that she 
shall have the straddling thing to hang 
over the doorway. Keep on cutting. 
The wish bone is there somewhere. 

Gain time by discovering a side bone 
or two. But keep that wish bone in your 
mind's eye. If you find it necessary to 
use your fingers in securing that bone, it 
is considered more entre nous, we be- 
lieve, to wipe them on the table cloth 
rather than to suck off the gravy. 

By following these few simple rules of 
advice, it will be easy for any one to 
carve the turkey, and we have only one 
parting Suggestion — that it is always 
wise to be conservative in matters and 
keep the turkey on the platter. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 33 

Signs of When the leaves have 

Christmas long been drifted frora 

the branches of the rose ; 
when the blossoms are supplanted by the 
drift of winter snows; when the north 
wind howls aroiind the house and fierce 
and fiercer blows, as it chases you adown 
the Street to tweek your chilly nose; 
when the boy begins to teil you of his 
battered, broken sied, and how he wants 
another with the runners painted red; 
when. you hear the childish prattle of an- 
other curly head, who mourns with artful 
feeling that her last year's doli is dead; 
when the good wife grows more loving 
and calls you, "Charlie, dear," and sits 
upon your lap awhile and whispers in 
your ear that she needs a few more dol- 
lars just to close a little deal, and old 
Nick himself would have to yield to such 
a fond appeal; when the small boy 
makes a business of being very good 
and wants to go to Sunday School as 
every small boy should; when the daugh- 



84 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

ter of the household astonishes us all by 
washing up the dishes and sweeping out 
the hall; when Father Time has turned 
the globe about the changing year; 
when fall has followed summer and 
winter time is here; when the ehildren 
act like angels alraost good enough to 
fly^ then the signs are all foreboding that 
the Christmas time is nigh. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 35 

DEGEMBER 
Bachelof^s Bachelor's quarters are 

Quarters ^^^t the most appropriate 

place in which to cele- 
brate so jovial a festival as Christmas 
eve. There is a lack of hosiery about the 
fireplace that at such a time is noticeable. 
There is a lack of good cheer, a lack of 
voices, a lack of fellowship, a lack of 
love, a lack of everj'^thing that consti- 
tutes Christmas in the minds of all who 
haye a proper appreciation of the propri- 
eties of the time. Bachelor's apartments 
are not altogether forgotten at such 
times. Various reminders of the happy 
day are received. But cuff links and 
neckties and cigar cases and even books 
do not, by any means, make Christmas. 
It takes at least two rocking chairs 
swinging before the fire^ and just as 
many little rocking chairs as the good 
Lord will allow, to make a genuine 
Christmas, and the Christmas that lacks 
these requisites is no Christmas at all. 



36 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Yet I invite you to spend the Christmas 
eve with a bachelor, most crabbed and 
cranky, perhaps, yet who sometimes feels 
sometliing lacking wlien Christmas eve 
draws near, and who, withal, never neg- 
lects to draw an extra rocking chair near 
the fire on Christmas eve, in hopes, pos- 
sibly, that old Santa Claus might fill it 
for him in a manner that would make 
him bless Christmas forever. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 37 

Spatks ffom It is Christmas eve^ and 
the Christmas I »i* before my cheery, 
PI liard coal firC;, watching 

the dark coals blaze and 
tremble in the fervid heat, glow like a 
passion^ grow white and then erumble 
away. These black coals. as they begin 
to sparkle, are like the credulous natures 
of children, I think^ that lie dark and 
prosaie enough until touched by the heat 
of fancy^ then glow and scintillate in a 
maze of fairy beliefs and Christmas 
myths^ and at last erumble in ashes be- 
fore the cool drafts of maturer judgment 
and skepticism. There are many things to 
be Seen in a hard coal fire^, especially on 
Christmas eve, if one only looks aright. 

There was a mother long ago whom 
you knew, and I think of her hair, which 
tried in the furnace of affliction, had^ like 
dark coals^ become as white as snow. I 
think of her lovC;, which, like the embrac- 
ing warmth of the coal fire, drove the 
coldness of the world from your young 



88 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

heart. The ashes fall frora the grate like 
the snow tliat Covers her lowl}^ bed in 
God's Acre, where the ghost flames go up 
as her spirit ascended to be with God. 
There was an oldtime chimney, below 
which on Christmas eve the stockings 
hung — your stocking and mine — and a 
little bed, where you lay listening for the 
jingle of Santa Claus' sleigh bells, which 
you soon heard away in the land of Nod. 
There was an oldtime home nestled 
among the trees, where the winter winds 
sang lullabies and the summer birds sang 
carols, an old home where good cheer 
reigned within, where the morning and 
the evening prayers ascended like sweet 
incense, leaving an aroma of reverence, 
of love, of confidence, of peace that even 
yet Clusters about its memories. "Strange 
things to see in a hard coal fire?" Yes, 
but on Christmas eve one may expect to 
see Strange things. 

There is a fair, sweet face I see in the 
embers — but it fades away, and the rud- 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 39 

dj coals seem less briglit and the grateful 
warmth less kindly since it has gone. I 
shake down the crowding aslies. The 
black nuggets fall upon the live coals, 
and the whole grate looks black and for- 
bidding. A violet flame darts up and 
dances over the dark heap like a mid- 
night fairy. It is a specter of hope that 
has long since fled. It is noiseless as the 
starlight, and yet it seems to whisper of 
something that might have been. Ah ! 
These "might-have-beens/' how they 
haunt US ! They are the ghosts that revel 
in our memories, the spectres that haunt 
our Christmas eves and our bedtime 
hours. They linger about in dark places 
and reach out to clutch our heartstrings. 
They enter our hearts and abide there 
forever. In the dark night, when we 
wander beneath the stars, when the winds 
rustle overhead, when we are alone with 
the thick darkness, the heavy band is 
laid upon our heart and thrums away 
until the ghosts of the past, the spectres 



40 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

of tlie future^ the gnomes of remorse and 
the demons of despair have stretched the 
tender strings of meraory to the breaking 
and clouded the past with mists of regret. 
But it is Christmas eve^ and no time 
for remorse and kindred follies. Ten 
thousand stockings are hanging beneath 
the chimneys, and Santa Claus is expect- 
ed to fill every one of them before morn- 
ing. As the sun climbs over the eastern 
hüls, a cry of delight will arise that will 
sweep around the world. There is the 
baby's stocking filled from top to toe with 
candy, jumping jacks and big rubber 
balls. He will celebrate his Christmas in 
royal style. Bless his heart! He will 
siick candy until he is tired of it and then 
deposit the sticky mass lipon the carpet 
and sit on it. He will suek the paint 
from the jumping jaek and distribute the 
colors irregularly over his countenance. 
He will investigate his sister's new wax 
doli and calmly dig out its eyes. He will 
cry for the shaving mug given his big 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 41 

l 

brother that very morning and carefully 
smash it upon the fender. Between morn- 
ing and noon lie will reqiiire at least six 
clean dresses^ and lie will be daubed with 
candy within two minutes after each is 
put on. But, bah ! Yoii all know how 
Christmas goes. The hands of the clock 
point upward, and Christmas is already 
here. So, with a "Merry Christmas" to 
all, after a vigorous punching of the om- 
inous Goals, your cranky baehelor will 
hurry off to bed. 



42 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 



A Deccmbcr Rhapsody 

A song of the summer, 
A regulär hummer, 

One hundred and ten in the shade! . 
Ice Cream and cream soda, 
Of beer a whole load! A 

Drink of ice cold lemonade ! 

Cold water in glasses — 
Ice clinks as it passes ! 

A duster! A Panama Fan! 
A cup of iced tea, 
For you and for me! 

Coat and vest on the hot weather plan ! 

A nice river bank, or 
A cold water tank for 

A plunge at the close of the day! 
A fresh, cooling breeze, 
From the north, if you please, 

To blow the mosquitos away! 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 43 

Home-Made December is the month 
Chfistmas when every magazine 

Pfesents* ^^^^^ "^^^^' ^^^ ^^" 

mestic pretensions, every 

daily newspaper, every country weekly, 

every famil}^ Journal, every religious pe- 

riodical and every almanac in the wide, 

wide World, remarks: "Christmas is al- 

most here/' and then proeeeds to give a 

few "easy directions" for manufacturing 

Christmas presents, thus cheating the 

local dealer out of his lawful profits, 

causing depression and gloom in the 

hearts of the recipient; spoiling half the 

tools in the house and encouraging pro- 

fanity about the home. No one will ever 

know how many dispositions are soured 

or how many tempers are ruined by this 

annual frenzy to create these home-made 

presents, which "anyone with a little in- 

genuity and a hammer and a saw can 

make in a few minutes." It is not so 

long ago that I was indueed to make a 

beautiful easy chair out of an apple bar- 



44 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

rel and a few yards of colored cloth, ac- 
cording to directions. One would have 
judged that any fool could make it, and 
it looked so easy, which proves conclu- 
sively that I am no fool, for the beautiful 
chair failed to materialize. I succeeded^ 
however, in transforming foiir apple bar- 
reis into beautiful kindling wood and 
myself into a horrible state of peevish- 
ness. Then I made a "handsome table" 
out of three broom handles and a cheese- 
box lid. And let me teil you right liere 
that three broom handles and a cheese 
box lid form the slipperyest, roundest, 
wabblyest, most unstable combination 
you ever tried to fasten with glue, nails 
or serews. "Fasten the handles together 
in the center/' said a magazine, just as if 
it were the easiest thing in the world to 
do. Fasten them in the center, indeed. I 
would like to see the author of that little 
plan fasten 'em in the center. As well 
try to fasten three eels together in the 
center. I tried fourteen times to drive a 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 46 

naii into the first handle, and fourteen 
times I raised a blood blister in a new 
place. In the center ! I think I see him 
do it. The author of such a plan ought 
to be confined for life at hard work — 
fastening three broom handles together 
in the center, for instance. It would 
keep him busy from now until eternity. 
I tried to screw them, and the screw driv- 
er slipped into the knee of my trousers. I 
tried a string to steady it while I drove 
another nail, and when I had finished 
that "beaiitiful table" made "from three 
broom handles and a cheese box cover" it 
looked like a drunken alderman on his 
way to a fireman's picnic. I did not give 
that table away for Christmas. I was 
not mean enoiigh to spoil anyone's fes- 
tivities. But if any one wants a "beau- 
tiful table" made of "three broom han- 
dles and a cheese box lid/' as aforesaid, I 
can direct them to a bargain. 



46 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

How to What the reader really 

Make Them needs is something easy. 
He wants to know how 
to make something which will cause 
pleasure on Christmas morning, some- 
thing which will cause the man or woman 
to smile when they find it in their stock- 
ings, something which has a faint resem- 
blance to something which someone has 
really seen somewhere, something about 
which there will be no doubts as to 
whether it is an embroidered dish towel 
or a picture throw, something which will 
not fall to pieces when one sneezes and 
which will not be turned to the wall on 
the arrival of visitors. It is embarrassing 
to find that one has used a Christmas 
chair tidy or a sofa pillow cover as a bath 
towel, especially if the donor happens to 
discover the error. Now, I purpose to 
assist the reader by outlining a plan 
whereby a few simple and pretty Christ- 
mas presents may be made of which one 
need not be ashamed. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 47 

A very pretty picture frame is made of 
twelve latliS;, four pounds of sliingle nailsj 
some putty, some white paint^ some black 
velvet^ a great deal of patiencC;, a few 
gimp tacks, a select assortment of swear 
words^ two yards of picture wire, four- 
teen fingers, a piece of glass^ a hammer, a 
saw, an ax^ a gimlet, a Square, a good 
moral character and all the other tools in 
the wood house. Take some afternoon 
for it when you häve three dollars in 
your pocket and a peaceful mood in your 
heart. Nail four laths together in the 
shape and size of the frame you wish to 
make. Saw off the ends. Then you will 
discover that the frame is lop-sided and 
was not built on the principle of the 
Square. Take four more laths and try 
again. Pound the nails clear into the 
floor. It will make things firmer. Then 
break the frame as you pull it up. All 
this will afford good practice and make 
good kindling. Next time put on the 
velvet. Use all your tools. If you have 



48 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

not enough, borrow some more. Keep on 
driving nails. If you can use some glue, 
all the better. I have forgotten what the 
putty and paint were for, but perhaps 
you can find a use for them. Fasten on 
the glass with screws. A crack or two 
will not hurt. Hang the frame up to dry 
and then run down town after supper and 
purchase a gilt frame with the three dol- 
lars. Take it home and hang it beside 
the other. Then when your wife is asleep 
relegate the dainty affair of lath and vel- 
vet to the furnace; slip the picture into 
the gilt frame, and you will have a pres- 
ent of which no one need feel ashamed. 
I intended to give the girls a little advice 
about fancy work, but I see the picture 
frame has already taken up too much 
Space. One must be so explicit in these 
matters, you know. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 49 

A Chfistmas The little tin trumpet 
After Thoüght ^^^^ battered and bent^ 
though it tooted most 
gaily of yore. The gingerbread man is 
minus a leg^ and his schottisching days 
are o'er. The candy giraffe and the pep- 
permint cat have grown so decidedly pale 
that they're sure to be sick, while the 
sugar-plum rat has lost the whole of his 
tail. The brownie^ who squeaked in so 
charming a way, is unable to utter a 
sound, while the drum, which went "rub- 
a-dub-dub" for a day, lies ruined and 
dumb on the ground. The candies and 
nuts and the goodies are gone, and the 
doctor's been here half the day with pow- 
ders and pills to care for the ills of the 
kids, and the Devil's to pay. 



50 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 



JANUARY 



Janiiary Troubles 

When the holiday vacation 
And the Christmas jubilation, 
Both give place to dull Stagnation 

At the dawn of a new year; 
And the good man, frowning glances 
At his wife, whose costly fancies 
Have embarrassed his finances, 

To prepare for Christmas cheer; 

When the weeks in January 
Drag along and leave him very 
Cross, and cranky, and contrary, 

And the good wife thinks him ill; 
Then he can but sit and wonder, 
Face all frowning, how in thunder, 
He can keep from going under 

And pay up each new year's bill. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 51 

A New Year^s There's a new baby in 
"B^Lby ö^^ block — a tiny speck 

of mortality drifted in 
from the Land of Where, washed up by 
the sea of life and stranded upon the 
reefs of reality. Its eyes still reflect a 
little of its baby lieaven; its band still 
grasps at unseen treasures ; its ears^, tuned 
as yet to heavenly music, hear but little 
of the Sounds of stränge old earth. Queer 
little people, babies are, living in a tiny 
World all their own; laughing at, they 
know not what; listening, when nothing 
is heard by grosser ears, Entering life 
with a consciousness obtained in a mo- 
ment of time, they typify the strängest 
and most weird question of human exist- 
ence — stranger and more mysterious even 
than that other stränge phenomenon 
named "death." "He has his father's 
nose," one says, "and his mother's eyes," 
and when he cries, "he has his father's 
temper." But no one knows where or 
how he got them. They came with him 



52 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

into tlie Strange world^ and he raust make 
the best of a very bad matter. There is a 
dimple in bis baby cheek for all the world 
like his mother's, and there is a wrinkle 
in the baby raind that is bound to grow 
more and more like a withered scar in his 
father's soul. These, too, came with him 
without his knowing that he brought a 
bürden not his own. This is not the place 
in which to enter into a discussion of the 
power and scope of heredity. But that 
dispositions are transmitted seems beyond 
doubt when we see children in the same 
household varying so greatly from one 
another, but eaeh following so closely the 
dispositions of the two parents. 

The raost astonishing thing which a 
man ever discovers about his first-born is 
that it is a human being and has a mind 
of its own. He makes this most astonish- 
ing discovery about the time the little 
fellow is learning to crawl. He also dis- 
covers that it is vastly more easy to teil 
how a baby should be governed than to 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 63 

demonstrate the matter when the subject 
is at band. The only perfect baby that 
has ever been mentioned is the one old 
maids teil about when they boast how 
they woiild raise 'em. The man of the 
house will always teil you that the little 
one has been spoiled by bis mother. He 
thinks;, if he were raising that child, he 
would make it mind or he would break 
its neck. Of course, the neck-breaking 
would be used only as a last resort. But, 
at any rate, that child would have to 
mind. And some day this wise man 
comes home and finds Johnnie playing 
with the stove. "Now^, John/' says this 
wise man, "you must come away from the 
stove, you will get all dirty." And John- 
nie rubs the blackest part of the stove 
with his pudgy white band and then rubs 
bis face and puts a polish on it most beau- 
tiful to see. And so, to make the matter 
piain to the little man, the wise man spats 
his hands. And the tears well up out of 
the big blue eyes and wash the black 



64 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

away^ and a wail arises tliat causes the 
wise man's blood to run cold in his veins. 
He grasps the child in both hands and en- 
deavors to soothe him. But it is of no 
avail. It is all a new and an awful expe- 
rience to Johnnie, and he gives vent to 
his feelings in cries that seem to his 
frightened parent like the last gasp of his 
dying son. And then the mother appears 
upon the scene^ and there is a soothing 
and a cuddling and a sobbing — and the 
man of the house goes up town to see a 
man. And the next day he teils how the 
child has been spoilt by its mother, but, 
as for the wise man, he tries no more ex- 
periments in child culture, for there is 
something about the cry of a baby that a 
man simply cannot endiire. But a baby's 
laugh will act as a tonic. And a man 
will exert himself more to gain it than to 
gain the applause of a crowd. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 65 

A Baby^s There is one physiolog- 

T^ccth ^^^^ feature about a 

baby that anatomists 
seem to liave failed to discover. Every 
baby has under process of construction an 
enormous niimber o£ teetli. Just what 
becomes of them I really do not know. 
They seem to come and go with the vary- 
ing dispositions of the child. If the little 
dear cries for its breakfast^, it is ciitting 
another tooth^ as its mother declares. It 
weeps for its dinner, and it is cutting an- 
other tooth. The youngster may emit a 
whoop like a savage as it cries for the 
moon, but it is cutting another tooth. 
The fond mamma brings the little one 
down to the parlor to exhibit to a friend 
and explains as she comes that: " 'E eety 
eety is dus tuttin' anover toofy oofy/' 
and the youngster corroborates the fact 
with a yell that nearly causes the visitor 
to fall from his chair. And later, when 
the baby dresses have given way to short 
pants and the small boy is naughty^ the 



56 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

mother still intercedes witli the man of 
the house in behalf of the erring one with, 
"Well, papa, you know he is cutting an- 
other tooth." And I have known them 
when they grow older — gray-headed and 
all that, and so cranky — oh, so cranky, a 
thoroughbred angel could not live with 
them. And yet I imagine, if their old 
mothers were here, they would still apolo- 
gize for the grey-headed old rascal as 
"just cutting another tooth." 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 5T 

A White A white hyacinth is by 

Hyacinth ^J side as I write, and 

its perfume^ more deli- 
cate than the breezes of Arabia^ seems to 
linger lovingly about me in the firelight. 
I wonder where^ in the cupful of mould, 
were hidden the pearly petals, the green 
leaves, the sensuoiis odor. I think it is 
like a handful of dust, called man, in 
whieh is hidden the embryonic soul, 
which leaves the clay and blossoms in an 
atmosphere divine. Yet, not like the 
soul, for the flower passes away and is 
gone. But the spicy odor greets me like 
an old-time friend. It is not from the 
tiny Cluster beside me, but I think it 
comes wafted down through an avenue of 
years from the old home garden. Per- 
haps it is only in the fancies of the grate 
that I see a boy in the tangled grasses ; or 
it may be but a dream-thought, born of 
the perfume of the breezes in the oak 
leaves, which nod and dance and glim- 
mer in the very ecstasy of a day in June. 



68 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

The great white clouds sail lazily over 
the treeS;, floating freighted with blessings 
for some thirsty land. The cool grass, 
"the handkerchief of the Lord/' against 
the temples, the luUing hum of a summer 
day, the sunshine and shadows playing 
among the leaves, the flowers, white and 
red and purple^, and then the odor of 
lilacs, of hyacinths, of roses^ of all that is 
delicious, and, above all, the supreme joy 
of existence thrilling the boyish pulse. 
The perfume comes from the dainty blos- 
soms at my side like a veritable bit of 
home, and the June day, with its spicy 
breezes and waving grasses, seems to be 
about me, though the snow lies deep with- 
out. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 59 

The Old How that old clock at 

dock home can tick ! There 

is not another timepiece 
in the whole world with such a familiär 
chuckle to welcome one back to the old 
living room. Tick, tock ! it brings to 
mind the lessons one learned while its 
busy hands told so many minutes tili play 
time. And sometimes its plump, round 
face hid behind its hands as they 
pointed out a few more minutes of pun- 
ishment. Tick, tock ! How the big dial 
would fairly laugh when, with hands 
aloft, it greeted a hungry boy with, 
"Only five minutes tili dinner. Ain't I a 
hustler?" What a sympathetic ring was 
in its voice as it called up the stairs in the 
morning: "One, two, three, four, five, 
six, seven. Young man, if you do not get 
up earlier in the morning, you will have 
moss in your hair, sir." Tick, tock ! Do 
you remember the lullaby that mother 
used to sing, while you gazed at the 
pendulum tossing to and fro? "Come 



60 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

thou fount of every blessing" — and I 
think God's greatest blessing was sing- 
ing the lullaby. Tick, tock ! The liiUa- 
bies are past, the youngsters have grown. 
It is a subdued welcome the old clock 
gives me. To me who has been away 
these many years. Perhaps the rnsty 
hands, as they swing about the tarnished 
circle, are trying to wipe away the tears 
that well up as it remembers all it has re- 
corded. Perhaps it is trying to recall the 
lullabies, the childisli frolics, of years 
ago, or the little secrets which were 
shared only witli its broad, honest face. 
Tick, tock ! The old clock's steps are 
lagging. It has grown weary with the 
work of years, and people say it is slow. 
Its hands are loose and bent with age. 
Soon the tossing of its brazen heart will 
be stopped forever, and behind the kind 
old face will be folded from all but you 
and me the dear, dead secrets of the past. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 61 

The Littlc There is a little chair 

Chaif Standing within an odd 

Corner in the old home 
— a piain little chair, with its dark rock- 
ers and its well-worn arms. And it Stands 
in the shadowy recess just below wliere 
the old clock ticks away, telling of the 
long, long minutes that are gathering fast 
between me and the deep raemoried past. 
But the little forms which once were held 
between the wooden arms and rocked to 
and fro, have long since fled, and the 
baby chair is forgotten. One, whom the 
little rocker held lovingly, slipped away 
through the shadows and is waiting some- 
where on the other side of the shadoAvy 
Valley. Many a time the old chair held 
her against its narrow bosom and rocked 
away her baby troubles. A tiny pressure 
sets the little chair vibrating. Rock, 
rock ! It was so that you swung to and 
fro, keeping time to a childish lullaby 
crooned low and sweet over the passive 
face of a china doli. Backward and for- 



62 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

ward, forward and back, you measured 
off the moments of happiness long ago. 
Rock, rock ! Steady and slow. So it was 
you who lield the children in your strong 
arms and soothed away the childish grief. 
The sobs and sighs were soothed away in 
the depths of your kind old bosom. Rock, 
rock! First quick, but growing slower 
and slower as the pearly lids dropped 
lower and lower over the drowsy eyes, 
and so you rocked the babies away to the 
drowsy Land of Nod. And still you 
stand in the odd old corner and hold wide 
your arms, waiting and wishing to hold 
once more the noisy children who long 
ago grew too large for your tiny grasp. 
But a tiny rasp comes from the dark old 
rocker, like a rusty sigh, and perhaps, 
when no one is near, the little old chair 
may sleep and dream of the dainty one it 
held so lovingly, who passed through the 
dim, dim shadows and waits for us day 
by day beyond the Valley. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 63 

Dotothy I sat at home one night 

and held upon my knee 
one of the little ones God has given me — 
Dorothy, the baby girl. The little head 
dropped against my Shoulder, for she was 
tired with play. One chubby arm was 
twined about my neck. A tear slionc like 
a jewel in her lashes, for she had cried to 
be held close to my heart. Have you 
never cried in your soul to be held close^ 
close to the heart of the Great Father? 
She smiled up into my eyes, biit a sob 
trembled in her breast. Some day she 
will learn the hard lesson of how to smile 
in Order to hide the sobbing. She laughed 
for a moment to see a moth fluttering at 
the window, trying to reach the flame. 
God grant that her soul may never be 
drawn and seared by the flame of pas- 
sion. She closed my eyes with her dim- 
pled hands to play that I slept and 
dreamed. Some day she will close my 
eyes again with her dear hands, and she 
will know that I sleep and dream, at 



64 WHILE THE FIRE lUJRNS 

last, thft drcams of a bcttor world. Yen, 
littlc girl ! 7'o rric you arc hcautiful. and 
f woridcr, with a pang in rny licart, if 
good old Robert Colycr was riglit whcn 
he Said: "How pretty slic is, how pret- 
ty! But, aftcr all, she's damagfd. 
Thcre's a black spot in her licart." I)id J 
piit tliat black spot in rny baby's hcart? 
Look at mc, littlc girl. I.ct rnc look 
down into your soul. Tlicrc is no black 
spot thcrc, tbank God ! Slic is pure. She 
is clcan. And yct — what if all my sins 
should live again in her? And now the 
long lashes droop lower and lowcr over 
the big bluc eyes. Some day she will try 
in vain to forgct her troubles in the Land 
of Nod. The ehubby band slides down 
from my Shoulder, for she is fast asleep. 
And as I hold her close to my beart I 
reacJj for my pen and paper and I write 
for her: 



WHILE THK Fllii: BLIlN.S 



Tw'o little feet kcep pattering tfirougfiout the 
rnerry day. 

Tw'O little lips keep chattering frorri rnorn tili 
night in play. 

To mc ther^r's nothing sweetr-r than the pat- 
ter of her feet 

And the chatter of the little rni.s.s so dehonair^- 
and sweet. 

What though she takes the poker to rattle on 

the chair; 
What though she scatters Crackers and cake 

crurnhs everywhere; 
What though she tears the papers and rnars 

the Window sill; 
What though she hends us all around to do her 

own sweet will? 

If God should need in [jeaven the patter of lier 

feet. 
And her chatter tr> rnake hrighter the far off 

golden Street, 
We could do naught hut listen as we waited 

all alone, 
'J'o the echo of the patter of her footstfrps 

round the throne. 



66 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Ghosts Ghosts have gone out 

of style. The silly old 
shade who was in tlie habit of Coming 
forth exactly as tlie hands of the clock 
swung around to the midnight hour, ar- 
rayed in flimsy nothingness, and who 
amused himself by slipping through 
keyholes, slamming doors and scaring old 
women out of their wits with his foolish 
pranks, has decamped to a more con- 
genial clime. The dead old raiser, who 
buried his money, no longer walks the 
earth like a crazy policeman, guarding 
his treasure. Hallowe'en has lost its po- 
tency since ghostland has become depop- 
ulated. Christmas night has no more 
magical virtue than any other night in 
the year. And yet, the twentieth 
Century ghost has its terrors, before 
which the shrieking, maudlin spirits 
of the past sink into insignificance. 
The ghost of the father, who may 
be alive or dead, whether at mid- 
night or noonday, stamps itself upon the 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 67 

face of tlie son. Dissipation, license, 
lewdness, drunkenness, the unruly tem- 
per^ godlessness, immorality and all the 
kindred evils come back like the shades 
and torment the children of the third and 
foiirth generations. Thank God, \ve no 
longer believe in prenatal markings and 
hereditary sins. But those who look 
about them must believe that dispositions 
and tendencies are transmitted. Of the 
three forces: heredity, environment and 
individuality^ it is fortunate that the lat- 
ter is usually the more powerful, but the 
other two are still to be reckoned with. 
We talk of self-made or self-ruined men, 
and yet their siiccess or failure was, in 
some degree, moulded two or three gener- 
ations before their time. Here and there 
you will see these ghosts peeping out at 
you, and you will say, "He is a chip of 
the old block/' or "The girl gets her tem- 
per from her mother." From the eyes 
these devils of heredity peep forth. Many 
of the wrinkles are the work of their fin- 



(iH \VniIJ-: JilK FJItE liL'RXS 

gers; gr;iy hairs comc at thcir call; tliey 
touch the vital spot, and the hcrcditary 
disease bre.aks fortli. Ghosts thf-y are 
that never leave us, that live in us until 
WC tliink thf;y arc a part of oursclves, 
and it takcs thc carcful obscrvcr to say, 
"This is tlic gliost, and this is the man." 
The World is füll of ghosts, yct we, 
who so bravcly avow our skcpticism in 
the supernatural, are so accustomcd to 
them that the phantom presence is never 
noticed. These ghosts — "gengaggere/' the 
Norwegians say, meaning "again goers" 
— these phantoms of other generations 
are visible on every band. The specter 
of the sins of long ago lurks in the dispo- 
sitions of the children of today. The 
virus of intemperance flows in the veins 
of infants. The ghost of cunning, of av- 
ariciousness, of deception, which, per- 
haps, is the only legacy of a child from its 
father, peeps from the eyes of the sons and 
daughtcrs. These ghosts of other years 
are more gruesome than the white-robed 



^\'HILE TUE FIRE BL'RNS f/) 

spccter, whose sole daty was to scare old 
women and children on dark nights. 
Their presence is everywhere for good or 
evil. Phantom hands of other genera- 
tions Stretch oot through the int^rvening 
years and guide weak hands to commit 
crimes and follies. Sfiadowy minds of 
other jears, weak and vile from a life- 
time of abo-se, live anüeen and unknown 
in the fresh young minds about us. These 
then, are the "ghosts." the "again-goers," 
that haunt us, and whose shadowy forms 
can nerer be exorclsed bat by the cross. 



70 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Separated There is no star in all 

the heavens, where dis- 
tances are lost in vastness and the earth's 
orbit of ninety million miles is sometimes 
too short to be used as a foot rule, whicli 
is so hopelessly beyond our vision, and so 
utterly separated from every other heav- 
enly sphere^, as one soul is separated 
from another. There is no worker in 
wood or iron^ no weaver of delicate 
theorieS;, no spinner of gorgeous fancies, 
who has ever yet constructed substan- 
tial stuffs or gossamer threads^, a bridge 
to eross the chasm between your soul and 
mine. In crowded streets, in the palaces 
of fashion^ in the haunts of vice, we are 
no nearer that unknown thing, the hu- 
man soul, than if we stood alone upon 
the farthest planet of all the universe. 
And yet, a glance, sometimes, or the 
pressing of a hand, or a quick sob of sym- 
pathy will come like a message from a 
far off land: 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 71 

"Ships that pass in the night and speak each 

other in passing; 
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the 

darkness." 

And whither these ships are bound and 
what are their precious cargoes we may 
never know. Perhaps their harbors are 
far away in a land of sunshine and of 
calms; perhaps their snowy sails will 
slowly throb in the breezes perfumed by 
the elysian foliage of an ideal land; per- 
haps their strugglings and the buffetings 
will all be passed wlien they "pass the 
harbor bar." But to us it is "only a 
signal shown and a distant voice in the 
darkness," then the rippling of the sea 
of trouble aroiind about will drown the 
soul voice and we journey on with only 
one star to guide us on our course. 

Ah, we are foolish children. We are 
afraid to be alone, not knowing that he 
is most truly alone who tries to drown 
the divine voice of solitude by the sense- 
less chatter of the multitude. "And what 



72 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

do children do when they are left alone?" 
asks Epictetus. "They take up shells 
and ashes and build something, then 
pull it down and build something eise. 
Sliall I, then, if you sali away, sit and 
weep, because I have been left alone and 
solitary? Shall I then have no shells 
and ashes?" 

A little garden in Florence, surrounded 
by convent walls ! Within that sraall en- 
closure there paced, day after day, the 
man who of all the world in that age of 
darkness, dared to defy the power of a 
carnal pope. Jerome Savonarola, the 
bravest man of all that Century, who at 
the feet of Solitude in his little Floren- 
tine garden, learned what duty was, even 
unto death. A little maid tending her 
flocks upon the fields of France listening 
to the voices that none eise could hear! 
Dame Solitude taught her what few oth- 
er women have ever learned — how to 
lead armies in battle, and behind the lit- 
tle Maid of Orleans, the French armies 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 73 

were everywhere victorious. A gaunt, 
ungainly lawyer wandering about the 
western prairies as was his wont and 
learning of Solitude the secrets of states- 
craft ! It was Abraham Lincoln, the man 
who, in the face of well-nigh universal 
dissent, dared to set free half a million 
slaves. "A man must be clothed with 
Society/' says Emerson, "or we shall feel 
certain baseness and poverty as of a dis- 
placed and unfinished member." But 
when the night time comes ; when we are 
alone; what a luxury to throw aside the 
clothing of conventionality and, robing 
ourselves in the restful gowns of thought 
and iancy, find rest in a realm far dif- 
ferent from those defined by social limits. 



74 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 



Which? 

You are the body. I am the soiil. 

You are the servant, I am the master. 
Do you think so soon I have lost control 

Of myself, because you cling the faster? 

Because your hot young pulses thrill 
At the sight of form of girlish beauty, 

Shall a glance from dark eyes break my will, 
Or a sweet voice charm me away from duty? 

Yet, only the touch of a white band near 
Will sometimes hurry the hot blood faster. 

And just a caress — a dream, I fear, — 
Will cause me to wonder which is master. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS T5 

Beingf Don't be afraid to be 

Alone alone, my boy. It is a 

good thing to do^ some- 
times to go out at niglit^ when the very 
darkness makes you understand myster- 
ies you have never understood before, 
and then you will know that while good 
Company is God's blessing, Solitude is 
God's peace itself. Boys, do you ever 
stop to think about wliat you are and for 
what you were made? Let me teil you 
then. You were made for work. Good, 
hard, honest work. There are but few 
of US who were born with silver spoons 
in our mouths, and for tliose who were 
I believe that riches have brought them 
but little of real happiness. Did you 
ever stop .to think what a mighty small 
per Cent of rieh men's sons are occupying 
positions of importance today.^* Look at 
the great department stores along State 
street, in Chicago, most of them owned 
and managed, or at least founded, by 
men who came to the city as poor boys 



76 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

from the country. Idleness is the curse 
of rieh and poor alike. Energy is what 
counts. I believe that God never yet 
made a man for the purpose of holding 
down a cracker box in front of a country 
grocery störe. We liear a great deal 
about women gossiping. Biit I want to 
say that the meanest lot of gossips who 
ever polluted God's footstool is a group 
of straddle bugs who call themselves 
men and who sit around sunning them- 
selves on the sidewalks and spitting to- 
bacco Juice where decent people want to 
walk. I want to teil you that no one 
ever secured wealth or happiness or wis- 
dom from sitting on a dry goods box and 
listening to filthy stories. It does not 
take a large amount of brains to join the 
cracker box legislature, nor a great 
amount of judgment to spit tobacco juice 
about the country grocery störe. 

I visited an Iowa farm home one sum- 
mer where the father was seventy-eight 
years of age and plowed corn behind an 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 77 

old fashioned cultivator, Walking in the 
furrow, every day during the season, 
from sunrise to sunset. He had never 
used tobaeco or liquor and was a dia- 
mond in the rough. I drove into the 
town of Oskaloosa with him one evening 
and there he saw a lot of old fellows sit- 
ting along the edge of the sidewalk, just 
as they had been doing every bright day 
for the past twenty years. And my friend 
walked up to the first old fellow and 
Said: "Hello Bill. Ye looking kind 
o' porly today. How old be ye, any- 
how?" And the old fellow shifted his to- 
baeco into the other cheek, spat clear 
over the hitching post and said: "Wal, 
Jim, I reckon if I live jest two weeks 
more, I'll be sixty-three. I come here in 
fifty-five and at that time I could hev 
bought the whole of Oskyloosy for fifty 
Cents an acre." "Yas, Bill, an' now if lots 
was going at fifty cents an acre, ye 
couldn't buy an inch on a back alley, 
could ye, Bill? An' how old be ye. 



78 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Sam?" "I'm sixty-one last November^ 
and what with rheumatisra and indiges- 
tion, IVe hed a dummed hard time." 
"Too bad, too bad^ Sam. IVe always no- 
ticed that tlie Oskyloosy sidewalks was 
bad fer rheumatism. Say, you fellers, I'll 
teil ye what I'm going to do fer ye. 
Well, I'm goin' to move to Oskyloosy, 
and I'm goin' to buy a lot of turkey eggs, 
an' I'll set the whole buncli of ye." The 
cid man was right. In almost every vil- 
lage, town or city of the wide, wide 
World, there are a lot of fellows who ^re 
holding down cracker boxes as a steady 
Job, just waiting for some one to come 
along with the turkey eggs and set the 
whole bunch of them. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 79 

Don't Boys, don't stagnate. 

Stagnate Don't vegetate, like any 

other cabbage head. Be 
sometliing. Make every minute count. 
Why I would mucli ratlier be a first- 
class corpse, witli my body nurturing 
the green grass overhead, and taking 
my chances of developing into the liveli- 
est kind of an angel over there, than to 
exist in such a eloud of mental stupidity. 
as if the imdertaker had thought I Avas 
not even worthy of a coffin. Learn to be 
a master of thought, my boy, and you 
may sometime be a master of words. 
Magical words ! How they sway the 
people ! How we sit enchanted with the 
musical syllables ringing in our ears. 
The words come to us like the stränge 
musie of the old piper of Hamlin town, 
whose magical notes drew the children 
from far and near, dancing after the 
stränge musician until all were lost 
'neath the gray old hill. 

My boy, you have vast treasures with- 



80 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

in your reacli. Riches for whicli a Van- 
derbilt or a Gould might strive in vain 
are yours, if you will but pick them up. 
"King's Treasures" from every land 
are within your grasp. More than this: 
magic, power, knowledge, ability are 
yours for the asking. A modest row of 
books in your room is of more value to 
you than a million dollars in the best 
bank in America. Is it not stränge that 
men will leave the Company of Immortais 
who are waiting for them quietly on 
their book shelves, and slink away to 
perch themselves upon some cracker box, 
expeetorate at the stove legs, and spin 
yarns? Don't do it my boy. Don't be 
afraid to select your Company and to se- 
lect them from the best, even though 
you are obliged to find them between 
book Covers. There is something better 
to be found than the cheap excitement of 
the Company of loafers. Go away by 
yourself — no, go in the Company of great 
men. Make their thoughts your thoughts 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 81 

and you will become one with them in 
thought, at least, if not in achievement. 
Don't talk so much that you have no 
time for thinking. Read and digest 
your books; störe tliem away in your 
brain for future use. It is the man of 
mental caliber who gets to the front in 
tliese days of intellectual supremacy, 
wliile the cracker box statesman will 
never get higher than the grocery legisla- 
ture. 



82 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

SIeep 

The flickering firelight flashes 
Its light about the room. 

A thousand fickle fancies form 
Faint figures in the gloom. 

The fairies of the shadows 

Flit in the failing light. 
They gather on my coverlet 

To bring the sleepy night. 

A sighing of the night wind 

Creeps in about my bed 
And mingles with the dreamy haze 

Of fancies overhead. 

The echoes of the music 

Sung near me long ago, 
As mothers, in their lullabies, 

Sing tenderly and low, 

Flash through my drowsy dreamings 

And rest the tired brain. 
The Vision of dear faces comes 

To sooth away the pain. 

The fairies of the shadows, 

Who nightly vigils keep, 
Have fled before the Coming 

Of the drowsy monarch, Sleep. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 83 

A Plain There is a piain book ly- 

Book ^^S upon my table, ap- 

parently no more invit- 
ing tlian a dozen others which are scat- 
tered about. I pick it up and in spite of 
the fact that snow is falling out of doors^ 
in a moment I am Walking over the vel- 
vet June meadow with Thoreau for a 
companion, listening to the bob-o-link, 
whose pleasant notes are as though he 
"touehed his harp within a vase of liquid 
melody, and when he lifted it out, the 
notes feil like bubbles from the trembling 
strings." Together we peer cautiously 
into the red wing's nest, upon the bare 
sand we find the night hawk's eggs. We 
"search for the snap dragon., the lamb- 
kill and the wintergreen." Far away we 
hear the farmer's hörn calling his hands 
in from the field. Each incident comes to 
me with almost the same Impression as if 
the scene were actually spread out be- 
fore me. I have read of summer before — 
lovely picture of the sultry, delicious, 



84 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

languid days, but they were days in 
some unknown land or of the long ago. 
Thoreau's "Summer" is the very summer 
tliat you and I love. He has caught the 
fleeting moments from June to Septem- 
ber, and without even losing the dew 
from the morniiig or the haze oftheeven- 
ing, he has reproduced and represented 
to US nature herseif. Is there any spell 
or enchantment one-half so wonderful as 
the magic within the Covers of a little 
brown book? 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 85 

Square Sticks Tliere is too much time 
In Round Holes wasted in this world by 
people trying to push 
Square sticks through round holes of a 
diameter equal to one side. The thing 
cannot be done, and one might just as 
well hunt a hole to suit the stick first as 
last. There are too many men who 
haven't smoothed off their corners, try- 
ing to fit themselves into some good round 
Position that they could never fill — some 
good Square timbers that would make 
mighty good support for a solid political 
platform, but for the tubing of the arte- 
sian well of free grace they are not worth 
a copper. And when you see a man with 
a number of pretty prominent corners, 
trying to push his way into some snug^ 
round hole, you can make up your mind 
that there is going to be a good deal of 
friction and fizzle right on that spot. 



86 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Friction Now, talking about fric- 

tion, the average man 
doesn't seem to know the use of grease, 
and everytliing wears on him like a rusty 
axle. He worries, and stews, and frets 
over little things all for lack of a little 
of the oil of patience, and his hair turns 
gray over the vexation and there is fric- 
tion all about. Why, if the Lord had not 
taken any more precaution about friction 
when he made the old earth, than we do 
over our common affairs^, the old poles 
would be raising such a racket with their 
squeaking we could not hear anything 
eise, unless, indeed, the old earth had had 
such a hot box that it had burnt up the 
whole World long ago and puffed the 
ashes into the eyes of the man in the 
moon. There is nothing like grease to 
help a man along. The man who has 
plenty of grease at band is all right. A 
little oil of politeness to patrons; a little 
oil of kindness to the unfortunate; a lit- 
tle oil of gladness to the sad; a little oil 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 87 

of thoughtfulness for the dear ones at 
home; what lubricators they are; how 
they sraooth down the rough places ; how 
they banish the jars, allay the troubles 
and do away with the tiresome friction of 
life. Life is not such a doleful affair as 
you and I would like to make it. The 
friction that rankles and heats us is large- 
ly of our own raaking. Life is a happy 
affair, but you and I turn the clouds in- 
side out, we go crossways on our journey, 
trying to find the rough edges of exist- 
ence, and when we find something a trifle 
rough we proceed to rub ourselves upon 
it until we raise a blister. The remedy 
for it all is: "Don't fret." Use a little of 
the oil of charity, and half of the frets of 
life will disappear. For, after all, to use 
an old, old witticism, "Half the troubles 
of our lives never happened." 



88 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Solitüde Are you afraid of tlie 

dark, my boy? You 
need not laugh when I say it. Perhaps 
you forgot to be afraid of the dark at the 
same time that you lost your baby 
dresses; it may be that there is not a boy 
in your town of whom you are afraid — 
except yourself. But it is a brave boy 
who is not afraid of hiraself. Why some 
boys are so afraid of their own hearts 
that they shut them up just as the small 
boys shut their eyes to blot out the dark- 
ness, and they never open them to let the 
sunlight brighten them or the sweet night 
air sweep through with healing thoughts. 
They bury their hearts away out of sight 
with careless Company; they lock them 
shut with foolish laughter and tainted 
jests. "No man/' says DeQuincey, "will 
unfold the capacities of his own intellect 
who does not at least checker his life with 
solitude." "Conversation enriches the un- 
derstanding/' says Gibbon, "but solitude 
is the school of genius." It is a mighty 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 89 

good thing to do, my boy, to go out into 
the dark and think. Some people can go 
on with their work at any time, set their 
brains going like clockwork and appar- 
ently go off and leave them. But you 
and I are apt to dig worms for bait, catch 
grasshoppers or do a thousand things in- 
stead of thinking. But go out at night, 
when the eerie darkness causes you to 
understand mysteries you have never un- 
derstood before, and then you will begin 
to understand what solitude can do for 



90 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

The Spidei* A spider lives in one 

And thc Fly corner of my parlor 
Window in a snug little 
web lie has woven all himself. He is a 
nice, bip^;, fat spider — as any spider is sure 
to be that is liicky enough to live in a 
bachelor's parlor and is moderately spry 
at fly catching. There was a blue bottle 
fly in the room last Sunday, and the way 
that spider eyed that fly reminded me of 
a politician watching the local postoffice. 
He stood at the door of his web and hun- 
grily watched the buzzing insect as it 
foolishly bnraped and thuraped its silly 
head lipon the ceiling. He backed slyly 
into his hall and peeped around the cor- 
ner as Mr. Fly came on a tour of inspec- 
tion toward the window. Finally, as the 
fly feil headlong into the web, the spider 
jiimped boldly upon his prey and bound 
him fast. I thought, as I watched the last 
striiggles of the poor blue bottle fly, how 
many lessons I might have found in the 
incident. I might preach you a temper- 



WHILE TUE FIRE BURNS 91 

ancc scrmon and j)osc tlic spider as thc 
saloon kccper. J miglit wcave a warning 
for tlie impressible young man, likening 
tlic spider to tl«c irinoccntly spry young 
woman. The fly might ty[)ify the young 
gambler drawii to liis ruin, or tlie green- 
Iiorn trap])cd by thc .shari)er. Old Satan 
himsclf might havc bccn charactcrizcd. 
Hut, aftcr all, I could not quit thinking 
of tlie asinine awkwardncss of tliat fool 
blue bottle fly. TJiere arc; two sides to 
every question^, even in th(; old eontro- 
versy of the si)ider and thc fly. I do not 
think tlierc is any moral in this little 
treatise. If thcre i.s, I have not found it. 
If you find a moral herc, you are w(;lcomc 
to it. 



92 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Charactefistics I am no philosopher and 
there are some problems 
that vex me woefuUy. Perhaps they are 
questions which have been answered long 
ago. In faet^ I remember conning learned 
paragraphs which were supposed to settle 
such questions for all time to come. Yet 
they return to nie again and again, and 
I find myself wondering the same 
foolish things that should have been 
settled long years ago. I wonder 
who you are and where is the di- 
viding line between us. If you wrong 
me and cause me to be angry, 
when I otherwise would have been happy, 
is my anger a part of myself or a part of 
you that has invaded my personality? I 
am aware that the theories of man's re- 
sponsibility and of cause and effect have 
been so thoroughly drilled into us that at 
first such a problem seems puerile. We 
are convined that every individual is di- 
rectly responsible for his every action. 
But when we view our own actions then 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 93 

some way things are different. If we do 
wrong, it is because some one provokes 
US. If we lie, we are convinced that tlie 
lie was a justifiable one. If we cheat, we 
believe that the victim was trying to 
cheat us^ but we "beat him to it." Which 
view is right, the one within or the one 
without ? If you, who are happy^, become 
attached to me, thoiigh I am morose, until 
your nature is changed; until you, too, 
are miserable, has not my unhappy dispo- 
sition become a part of you, and have you 
not in some measure lost your identity? 
It is bewildering. Tendeneies are inher- 
ited, so are dispositions and tastes. If 
you have your grandfather's integrity 
and your grandmother's love of industry ; 
if your love of books comes from your 
mother and your love of horses from your 
father; if you become morose from being 
fond of me, pray teil me who you are, 
any way ? 



94 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Tempets Tempers are q u e e r 

things. We snap and 
growl, and scold, and fume^ and fret for 
no cause under the sun, and when troubles 
really come we smile and take it as un- 
concernedly as though it was the most 
commonplace affair. We will sulk for a 
week over a slight that was all in our 
imagination^ and we grow all the madder 
because we know that the whole matter 
was an invention of our own conjuring. 
The faet is, when we feel good, a cyclone 
cannot upset our equaniraity, but if we 
chance to be out of sorts and have the 
blues, we are going to become angry and 
stay so, and, if we don't find any provoca- 
tion, we will make one. One who is ad- 
dicted to the blues is a most unfortunate 
individual. Ten minutes after the attack 
begins he has concluded that he is the 
most abused man upon the face of the 
earth. Every person in town is working 
against him — he knows it, and it is no use 
to deny the fact. If the unfortunate man 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 95 

is married, he wreaks Ins disgust upon liis 
wife, the baby and the cow. He won't 
answer when bis wife calls bim to supper, 
and wben be does deign to speak be men- 
tions tbe Infant as a "brat." He is sud- 
denly seized witb tbe idea tbat be must 
work nineteen bours a day to keep tbem 
all out of tbe poor bouse, but, after all, be 
finds tbat be is too angry to accomplisb 
anytbing. He goes to bed an bour earlier 
tban usual, tbrasbes about for an bour or 
twp before be can go to sleep, and awakes 
in tbe morning witb a beadacbe. It takes 
tbe average man about a day and a balf 
to get over tbe blues, and during tbat time 
he is about the meanest, most unreason- 
able and most disagreeable individual 
tbat tbe Lord ever allowed to live. 



96 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Aboüt A keyhole is a mighty 

Keyholes good thing, my boy, to 

put a key in, but it is a 
very bad place to look througli. Some 
people are forever looking for keyholes. 
Not that they have any keys to fit thenij 
but that they are anxious to see some- 
thing which was meant to be hidden from 
their sight. You remember the story of 
Peeping Tom, don't you? He lived in 
Leicester, England. You know the king 
had ordered a heavy tax, which the peo- 
ple were unable to pay. The good queen 
offered to make any sacrifice and to do 
anything the king would direct, to save 
the people from the bürden, and the old 
barbarian decreed that she should ride 
naked through the streets of Leicester. 
She made a proclamation throughout the 
city that no one should look upon the 
streets that day. And she rode along the 
highway, her beautiful hair her only 
clothing. But Tom peeped through the 
keyhole to see the queen. He heard the 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 9T 

hoofs of the horse upon the pavement. 
He could almost see the good queen 
upon her palfry, when lo, his eyes 
dropped out and his evil purpose was un- 
attained. And the good people of Leices- 
ter will point out the very keyhole to this 
very day. One has enough to do to keep 
his own doors locked without prying 
about to peek through the keyholes that 
belong to others. In other words, it is well 
to mind one's own business, There are al- 
together too many persons who lose dol- 
lars and dollars by neglecting their own 
work to explain where some one eise has 
failed. It is a pretty smart man who can 
finish his own task, and it is not one in a 
thousand who can finish his work if he 
stops to criticise someone eise. It is a faet 
worth noting that the man who minds his 
own business is usually the one who has 
the most business to mind. 



98 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 



FEBRUARY 



A Valentine 

Miss Kittie is dressed in a calico gown; 
Yet none of the lassies in all of the town 
Are pretty as Kitty in calico gown. 

Just calico! Really too shocking. 
But Anna wears satins and silks every day 
And minces and flirts in a most stylish way. 
She dresses in laces and silks, and they say, 

Has nothing but silk in her stocking. 

Dear Kittie, your smiles with a calico gown 
Are better than silks with a petulant frown. 
For Kittie is really the belle of the town 

In calico ! Really quite shocking ! 
While Anna, in laces and silks every day, 
Sits frowning at home, where I hope she will 

stay. 
For it matters but little to people today 

As to whether there's silk in your stocking. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 99 

On Dress Oh, yes. I suppose it is 

very necessary and all 
that, — in tliis climate, at least, and very 
stylish, and very becoming, and some- 
thing which the young ladies who have 
due respect for appearances cannot well 
do without. But, just between ourselves, 
— I really should not want the ladies to 
hear this, — I believe the costume of the 
average young lady is more a nuisance 
than a benefit. I am not speaking hygi- 
enieally. Personally, I do not care 
whether a woman prefers being squeezed 
to death in the clasp of a pitiless wliale- 
bone jacket in preference to a good hon- 
est hug from her best young man, or not. 
Since she seems to prefer wearing paper 
shoes and her clothing hu mere spots in 
the coldest weather, it is her own affair. 
In fact, a woman's costume is something 
about which a mere man is supposed to 
know nothing. To the average young 
man the subject of a woman's dress is a 
vaguely understood question. The riches 



100 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

of the loom of Persia may be exhibited 
before him upon fair Shoulders in vain. 
He cannot teil silk from ealico^ and as for 
style, he coiild not teil whether a dress is 
direet from Paris or from the garret. 
This being the case, the average young 
man fails to understand why he should 
be kept waiting an hour and a half in the 
parlor while a young lady spends "half a 
minute" to finish her toilet. What in the 
name of common sense does she do with 
all tliat time? Does she put every indi- 
vidual garment on and off a dozen times 
before she can deeide what to wear? Does 
she spend all that time looking in the 
glass, or is she sly, thinking delay will 
whet the appetite of the waiting young 
man, and so deliberately keeps him wait- 
ing while she attends to a dozen little 
things which might have oceupied her at- 
tention before? 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 101 

The Shy Fine dresses are his 

Youn^ Man abomination. They are 
the causes of innumer- 
able mortifications. They are his stum- 
bling blocks^ literally and figuratively, 
on his way to social success. The shy 
young man fairly dotes on unassuming, 
close-fitting gowns of woolen fabries; 
while the approach of some lady dressed 
in laee will start the Perspiration in beads 
upon his forehead. His fair lady dons 
a gown as dainty as gossamer, and he is 
in misery. He escorts her to the dinner, 
or to the luncheon^ or whatever the affair 
may be, as if he was Walking upon eggs. 
As he takes his seat his watch chain 
Catches in her sleeve. It is sure to. He 
knew it would. It is a fatality for the 
shy young man. If he had left that chain 
at home, he is convinced that in some 
manner it would have appeared and 
caught in her sleeve. It always does. 
He drops the pickle tong into her lap, 
and before he lias rescued it he has de- 



102 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

posited sundry knives and forks and salt 
cellars and napkin rings upon the floor as 
well; and if he is saved the mortification 
of upsetting her soiip or her coffee he is 
uncommonly lucky. In the embarrass- 
ment of the moment his chair leg has 
taken its position upon a fold of her 
dainty dress^ and later as they rise an 
ominous tear makes his heart flop dan- 
gerously near his palate and then sink 
sickeningly down to rest on the soles of 
his shoes. He steps on or trips over her 
train in the return to the parlor, and in 
her heart she abominates him, and he 
would not blame her if he knew it. He 
abominates himself. But words can never 
teil how he hates that gown. It seems to 
him that his very words become entan- 
gled in its shimmering meshes, and he 
stammers and blushes like a school boy. 
He imagines, if he looks at the thing, it 
will tear; if he breathes in that direction 
the lace will blow away^ and he is sure 
that a hearty laugh would demolish the 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 103 

whole fabric. He spends an evening of 
raisery and puts in a sleepless night later 
and lieartily wislies that every girl was 
compelled by law to wear nothing more 
fragile than gingham. 



104< WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Style I never see one o£ those 

dreams of fashion, those 
masterpieces of dressmaking, but I think 
of the remark of tlie old man who stood 
in the museuni;, gazing at the skeleton of 
a jackass, who said: "Truly, man is 
fearfully and wonderfully made." We 
of the male persuasion fall to recognize 
style. We really cannot teil an autumn 
bonnet from a last year's bird's nest. It 
takes a woman, and a really smart one^ 
too^ to appreciate it. Her creed might 
be: "For though I speak with the voiee 
of men and of angels and have not style, 
I am become as sounding brass. And 
though I have the gift of prophecy and 
understand all mysteries, and have not 
style, I am nothing. Style shall cover a 
multitude of sins. Style never faileth. 
And now remaineth these three, beauty, 
wit and style, and the greatest of these 
is style." But, leaving all joking aside, 
it is a question worth considering why 
the nine hundred and ninety-nine women 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 105 

should follow tlie lead of the thousandth 
with never a mutiny in tlie ranks. The 
one thousandth woman, whoever she is, 
who originates styles, said^ "bustle^" and 
the nine hiindred and ninety-nine at once 
grew humps. Then this aiitocrat invent- 
ed the bell skirt^ and nine hundred and 
ninety-nine pockets were sacrificed upon 
the altar of the new style. Again her 
ediet went forth for a revival of crinoline^, 
and for a while the man of the liouse 
coiild hardly find an apple barrel about 
the place with more than a single hoop 
on it. What I want to know is this: If 
that mysterious one thousandth woman 
is going to rule the nine hundred and 
ninety-nine^ what has become of our in- 
dependence? Why not call this a mon- 
archy at once — at least;, on one side of 
the house ? If I cannot Scratch my ticket 
without being held up as an object of 
ignominy; if I cannot vote for whomever 
I please, dead or alive, providing he 
seeras to me fit for the position; if you. 



106 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

my lady friend, cannot wear a bell skirt 
or a bustle, a flounce or a tie-back to suit 
your own sweet will, witliout calling 
upon yourselves the ridicule of those who 
would applaud just as readily if the edict 
so commanded, why not disclaim all pre- 
tense of living in a republic and acknowl- 
edge that we are existing under the most 
oppressive sort of monarchy, the customs 
of which invade our very homes and con- 
sciences ? 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 107 

Pure My lady readers have, 

Crankiness without doubt, marked 

me by this time as one 
of those male cranks who are always 
prating about female dress reform and 
other matters which do not concern them 
in the least. On the contrary^ as I liave 
already indicated, if they can stand it, I 
can. I could dance in the giddy whirl of 
fashion if wliirling was in my line and 
gaze at the half-hidden loveliness of the 
decollete costume with never a blush. 
Still I have no fault to find with stjde. It 
is a harmless recreation, a mildly intoxi- 
cating aspiration rarely so baneful in its 
effects as pool or poker, nor as demoraliz- 
ing as mixed drinks. Do not think for a 
moment that I woiild have the ladies ab- 
jure style and adopt mannish vices. If 
women must sin — and wliat human being 
does not? — I would prefer that she should 
err in some such pretty way^, which you 
and I can never distinguish from a virtue. 



108 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Style I never could blame the 

ys* Att artists for delineating 

the nude. (Please re- 
member that this is written in the restrict- 
ed atmosphere of a country town.) They 
have been foreed into the custom by the 
ladies themselves. They could not help 
it. Think of the ridiculousness of the 
Statue of Liberty with a bustle and high- 
heeled shoes. What an out-of-date lot of 
beauties would adorn our art galleries. 
Charity in crinoline; Faith in a bell 
skirt; Hope in a tie-back. Preposterous ! 
Robe Leighton's figures in today's cos- 
tumes and tomorrow they will be guys. 
Perhaps there is a hint there of something 
lacking. It may be that art has been sac- 
rificed to ornament, and that style is not 
even a branch of art. In the light of an- 
other generation, today's fashions will be 
grotesque. It will be time, then, to com- 
plain of the nude when modistes have in- 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 109 

vented a costume which is at once artistic 
and will never be out of date. And so^ 
you seC;, when style becomes art, style it- 
self will disappear. 



110 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

What to There is such a differ- 

Read ence between what peo- 

ple shoüld read and 
what people do read that the good books 
really have a hard time to survive. It is 
not my Intention to compile a list of one 
hundred books that should be read. The 
task is too arduous for an idler. Besides^ 
Emerson and Lubbock and Dr. Eliot 
have done that for me. Yet even such 
eminent writers sometimes make the mis- 
take of judging the capabilities of all 
readers by their own. Emerson believes 
we should read only what we enjoy, and 
then names books which the average 
reader could not even understand. What 
the young readers of today want seems 
to be sugar-coated literature, and if the 
sugar coating goes clear through to the 
end^ and the solid center is left out alto- 
gether, they do not object in the least. I 
wish that ninety-nine per cent of all the 
fiction in existence might be destroyed, It 
would be more valuable as rubbish 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 111 

to fill up the lioles in country 
highways than as literature to grace 
our bookshelves. And what a glori- 
ous one per cent would be left. 
Perhaps some of us place too much im- 
portance upon the value of reading. We^ 
who have made it a Iiobby, may overesti- 
mate its value. But of this I am sure^ 
none of us overestimate the danger of 
bad reading. The idea of sending boys 
and girls to school to learn morals, and 
then placing in their hands an indiscrimi- 
nate mass of reading in eheap Journals,, 
which are unnecessary as avenues of news 
and are abominable as literature. Bad 
newspapers, bad books, bad companions 
— these are equally to be avoided. I have 
seen in homes where boys and girls were 
growing up homes which were supposed 
to be Christian — books and newspapers 
from the beginning to the end of which 
not one good, clean idea could be gained; 
in which impure, irreligious and brutal 
ideas were the chief matters of interest. 



112 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

People talk of the responsibilities of edi- 
tors as though we were obliged to read 
every noxious and vile thing which some 
poor, irresponsible and immoral devil of 
a reporter wrote. But we all know that 
any paper which has no readers will soon 
cease to exist. As great a fault lies with 
the buyer as with the writer. The father 
who feeds his children mentally from a 
literary gutter may read in the columns 
of such sheets the future of his children. 
The only way to stamp out vile publica- 
tions is to refuse to buy them. Keep them 
out of your homes. If we give small chil- 
dren sharp knives as playthings^, our 
kindness will serve but to injure them. 
Evil books^ weak stories^ stories of pas- 
sion are knives in the hands of children 
and serve but to injure and mutilate the 
minds and the souls of those we love. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 113 



Süccess 
Drop that Don't! Of all things talk now of 

success. 
The might-be's are over. To whimper and 

guess 
Of what might have occurrecl had things 

shaped themselves 
To our fancy, is folly. To look back, absurd. 

Will it soften the smart of the player who's 

lost 
In the game of the dice, to be counting the 

cost? 
AVill he who has staked his own soul in the 

game 
And lost it, forget, if he places the blame? 

What avails it, then, I who have juggled with 

life, 
Have no right to complain if I lost in the 

strife. 
The game has been played. — God does all for 

the best. 
If one's pathway is piain, then what matters 

the rest? 



114 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

The First Miss Sweet Sixteen has 

Bg^y a beau — her very first — 

and anybody would 
know it. You can always teil tliese early 
passions, these sehool girl infatuations 
that are a little more intense than any 
affection which comes later. She wears a 
most unconscious air, so greatly overdone 
that that alone is enough to convict. If 
ever a girl could dance, or sing, or play, 
or laugh, or cry, or spend whole hours 
gazing at the stars, it is when she is ex- 
periencing that little calf love which 
makes its first appearance with her first 
beau. Just why lovesick mortals should 
evince such a remarkable propensity for 
star-gazing, I never could understand. 
But certain it is that, when John suddenly 
recognizes that Nora is a remarkably nice 
girl, in fact, a little nicer than any girl he 
has Seen before, he is suddenly seized with 
such an astronomical fervor that the 
nights are not half long enough for his 
silent studies. He will walk beneath the 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 115 

''murmuring trees" and gaze at tlie "silent 
Stars" for hours. And as for Nora, if she 
can just hang over tlie gate for half an 
hour after bedtime, she sees John's face 
reflected in every brooding star in the 
sky. Oh, dear! If all the ecstasy that 
beats, and tlirobs, and dances in the hearts 
of these sweet sixteen lovers could be di- 
vided amongst us all, there would be 
enough to make everybody happy. 
But Miss Sweet Sixteen will never 
teil you who the object of her 
adoration is. Not she. She speaks 
of him now and then and blushes 
as she says his name, and changes the 
conversation with the most unconscious 
air, and wonders why his name is prettier 
and harder to say than that of any one 
eise. And when she is alone she may say 
it over to herseif, just to grow accustomed 
to speaking it. She may write it occa- 
sionally on some loose paper and then 
tear it into very, very minute fragments 
and never breathe easy until the last bit 



116 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

is burned. She is very discreet^ is little 
Miss Sweet Sixteen, and never sees him 
when she meets him and seems to be 
bound to look in any other direction 
than into those blue eyes looking at her. 
She knows there is a pathetic appeal in 
those boyish eyes and a riiddy blush on 
his cheek^ and she loves him for it, but, 
as for herseif, she would not look for the 
World. And so, little Miss Sweet Six- 
teen dreams out her school girl love. 
Some day she will wake from it all and 
wonder how she could have been so silly. 
And yet, in the years to come, no other 
lover will win half the heart throbs that 
greeted the school boy lover of her long 
ago. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 117 

Match Every year, as tlie snows 

begin to melt away, as 
tlie rivulets swirl down tlie muddy coun- 
try streets^ as the villages all over the 
World awake to the first thrill of ap- 
proaching spring, a desire for music 
seems to have its birth. Then it is that 
the village band has its beginning. Per- 
fectly respectable Citizens of the smaller 
towns suddenly go wrong at that season 
of the year. Horns, drums and other 
instruments of musical torture are se- 
cured, and the diatonic revelry begins. 
This is the way it takes place: 

All the boys down here in Jimtown 

Are a-goin' to hev a band. 
An' the music they are going to make 

I jest teil you will be grand. 

An' when they get to goin'. 

All the folks'll flock to greet 
The Jimtown Band a-comin' 
An' a-marchin' down the street. 



118 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

First you hear'll be a thumpin' 

Of the big drum far away, 
Then the little drum '11 rattle 

Then they'U all begin to play. 

An' above the other fellers 
In their bran' new dressy clothes, 
You kin hear the cornet leadin' 
An' a singin' through its nose. 

An' the piccolo a squeakin' — 

Peetle-eetle-eetle-eet, 
Flirtin' with the brass-mouthed tuba, 
While they're marchin' down the street. 

An' the alto still a tootin' 

Rup-et-up-et-up-et-up, 
Playin' after beats and tryin' 

Always to be ketchin' up. 

An' the clarinet a squawkin' 

Like a rooster in a fit. 
An' the tenor fairly blastin' 

With his cheeks just fit to split. 

An' the folks'll stand an' listen 
As the band goes marchin' by, 

While the tuba grunts and wheezes, 
An' the saxaphone '11 sigh. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 119 

When they really git to-goin' 

All the folks '11 flock to greet 
The Jimtown Band a-comin' 

An' a-marchin' down the street. 



120 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

A Pleasant Just Walking along, my 

Joüfney ^^7 • ^^ ^^^ J^^* Walk- 

ing along, and where 
the road will end, God only knows. It 
looks like a very straight road to you^ 
but you will find that it has many a 
crook and many a turn. The highway 
of lifc;, my hoy, is a good old road and 
not half as gloomy as many people 
would have you believe. God's sunshine 
bathes it from end to end^, and God's 
flowers will cheer you on the way, if you 
only stop to gather them. In fact, there 
is not much excuse for grumbling over 
the accommodations on the way of life. 
We are traveling over the scenic route, 
and a thousand beauties are on every 
hand to give pleasure, and I am just her- 
etie enough to believe that our greatest 
end in life is to have pleasure — deep, 
harmless, useful;, thoughtful pleasure. The 
road begins in the land of fancy, where 
golden-edged clouds border the horizon. 
It winds in and out among the dells of 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 12? 

childhood. It loiters among the lily- 
scented gardens of youth, where you 
may — for wlio knows? — find a compan- 
ion who will travel the same old road by 
your side to the very end. It hurries 
over the prairies of manhood, to reach 
the quiet somber Valleys of old age, 
where just beyondj, the delectable moun- 
tains may be seen^ blue against the gold- 
en sky, glorious with the setting sun. 
Noj my boy, the journey of life is not 
such a dolorous journey as many would 
have you believe. There is more happi- 
ness than sorrow scattered along the 
way, there are more occasions for laugh- 
ing than for mourning; "It is better to 
whistle than cry." We each of us have 
our little bürden of sorrows, it is true^ 
but most of US could do them all up in a 
handkerchief and carry them on the end 
of our staff and forget they are there, if 
we would only reduce our luggage to the 
proper dimensions. But too many of us 
take a great winding sheet and pile up 



122 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

in it a great deal of temper, a great many 
harsh words, a great many evil habits, a 
great many evil thoughts and deeds, 
until we can hardly tie the corners across 
the pile, and then wearily march over 
the higliways of life, bent down under 
our load until we cannot see the sunshine 
and the flowers, gazing at nothing but the 
sticks and stones over which we stumble, 
and we say: "What a weary journey! 
Life is filled with trouble and with sor- 
row, and happy is he whose journey is 
done." Don't do it, my boy. Enjoy 
every minute of life, not with senseless 
amusement, but with that deep, lasting 
joy of a füll life. Find wherein lie the 
beauties of existence; test the füll depths 
of the happiness of society and of soli- 
tude, and the journey of life will be to 
you a journey of sunshine and of roses. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 123 

A Modern No, my boy, it is not 

Miracle necessary any longer for 

a man to work twelve 
hours a day in order to provide for him- 
self and family. Any man of ordinary 
intelligence can obtain the necessaries of 
life and some of the luxuries as well^ and 
not work very hard, either. No one has 
to live like a slave any longer, in order 
to eke out a miserable existence. Some of 
US are poor, to be sure, — we cannot all be 
rieh — but we may all be comfortable. 
But what surprises me more and more 
every day that I live is how some men, 
who do not seem to be blessed with more 
than tlie average amount of intelligence 
and with no more capital than I have 
myself, manage to live day after day and 
year after year, with no more thought of 
the morrow than the smallest infant. 
"They toil not, neither do they spin, yet 
Solomon in all his glory" did not take 
more solid comfort than do these miracles 
of humanity. You have seen them. 



124 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

They infest the street corners in the 
country villages and discuss everything 
from the presidential policies down to the 
youngest arrival in the town. The gro- 
cery boxes are encumbered with their 
carcasses. They know how everything 
should be run, from the town Council to 
the Senate. All they need is an "oppor- 
tunity" to do something great. But the 
opportunity never comes. No, my boy, 
opportunities are not running around 
hunting up men of that kind. And even 
should one appear, these grocery legis- 
lators are too busy doing nothing to no- 
tice it as it rushes past. The moments 
pass by and are gone; the hours slip 
away^, and they never realize what they 
have lost. The days and the years roll 
silently along, and a lifetime has passed 
away. . The world is no better for their 
having lived. Humanity is the loser. 
These miserable scraps of manhood are 
buried away in some corner of "God's 
Acre" and are forgotten. It is just as 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 125 

well;, for the world has but little use for 
such timber. And if, in the world to 
come^ they ean find some manna boxes 
where they may perch themselves along 
the streets of gold;, and where each one 
may teil his admiring friends just how 
the universe should be run^ and how Par- 
adise should be irrigated from the River 
of Life; or where they might criticise er 
teil stories about the arch-angels them- 
selves; or smile and look wise when an 
angel in skirts passed along, and expecto- 
rate tobacco juice upon the golden bricks 
— if they can do all this in Paradise, they 
might be happy there. But, if not, they 
might just as Avell go to the other place 
at once and save trouble. No, my boy, 
though it requires but few brains to be 
a loafer, and though they exist and seem 
to have enough to eat and to wear, it is 
not a happy life, and even a loafer must 
sometimes feel deep down in his heart, a 
disgust for himself that is sharper than a 
knife to the flesh. You may deaden your 



126 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

sensibilities by idleness; you may dull 
your coijscience by evil speaking; you 
may destroy your purity by obscenity; 
but you will also destroy all your ^a- 
pacity for pure enjoyment. And, later 
on, my boy, when the candle of life grows 
dim, when the step is less firm, when the 
hair has grown white, then, perhaps, we 
may awake, but it will be too late. Life 
and its possibilities will have slipped 
from our grasp and we will grope our 
way into another world, despised and 
unmourned. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 127 

Entre Not« And do you, then^ my 
hoj, have to invent ways 
in which to pass away the time? Do the 
moments pass so slowly that it is neces- 
sary for you to while them away? Let 
me teil you that a day or a month or a 
year, when it is past, seems but a moment. 
The longest life is too short to achieve the 
success which we crave. It takes sixty 
minutes in every hour, and twenty-four 
hours in every day, and three hundred 
and sixty-five days in every year, and 
enough years to complete a lifetime to 
win success, and, even then, when we lay 
down our work at last, our aims will be 
not half accomplished. Chauncey Depew 
Said: "Some pepole are always lounging 
about some country störe, holding a chair 
down hard and talking about the luck of 
this man or that man of the village, who 
has been successful. Every time I visit 
my native village and go around among 
these fellows they say, *0h, Chauncey, 
there's nothing like luck, and youVe got 



128 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

it.' " And he might have added that those 
fellows^ sitting around tlie grocery stoves, 
would not recognize luck if she came 
Walking down the street looking for 
them with a lantern. They are so 
busy cursing their luck that they 
really have not time to earn two 
dollars a day when they are of- 
fered them. And to teil the triitli, it is 
enough to keep anyone busy attending to 
everybody's business and lending a hand 
occasionally at running the universe as 
well. No doubt, my boy^ that you are 
smart — very smart^ indeed, but even geni- 
uses have no time to loaf. Edison still 
works twelve to fourteen hours a day. 
Armour, the famous packer, was in his 
office every morning at six o'clock and 
feit the better for it. No one is made 
happy by idleness. Idleness will make a 
man wretehed sooner than hard work. 
The happiest man I ever saw was one that 
worked ten hours every day of the year 
except Sunday. Tliis is a long preach^ 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 129 

my boy, and perhaps it is a dry one^ but 
absorb it if you can. Pound this fact into 
yoiir mind. Remember that idleness is 
only another name for misery and indus- 
try another name for happinesS;, and your 
life will be a snccess, you may be siire. 



130 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

AboKt And SO;, my boy, you are 

Success about to enter life in 

earnest — to earn your 
own living; to make a fortune, perhapS; 
and the fortunes of otliers. You expect to 
accomplish great things. You are füll of 
hope — so füll tliat it bubbles out in smiles 
upon your face. Life has suddenly taken 
on a new meaning. You are beginning to 
understand that there is a niche in life 
intended for you to fill^ and you are al- 
ready anxious to occupy it. Success seems 
very near to you — only a step, and it is 
yours. It may be farther than you dream^ 
my boy, and yet I am not going to dis- 
courage you. For I believe that it is only 
a Step distant. Take that step, and suc- 
cess is yours. I have been reading re- 
cently some long articles intended to help 
boys in taking their first steps toward 
success. They have carefully advised 
how these first steps should be taken and, 
after reading the whole book, I think all 
the directions misiht Iiave been Condensed 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 131 

irito iwo words. Wliat do yoii tliiiik of 
that, my boy? Two words will teach 
you how to win success. Not very long 
words, either. You can easily learn thern. 
Well, then, tliese two words which Jt took 
the author a whole volume to teil, are: 
"Be HONEST." Not liard to remember, 
are they? But tliey are a siire gnide to 
success. Be honest with yourself when 
you choose your life work, Choose a 
calling that you know you can honor and 
enjoy. Be honest with yourself in all 
your work. Don't cheat yorrself by be- 
ing idle. It takes every moment to win 
success, and every second that you squ. an- 
der is a loss to you forever and forever. 
Be honest to your employer. Give him 
your time willingly. Give him the bene- 
fit of your brains as well as your h.ands. 
Make his interests your own. Did I not 
teil you truly.'' Do not those t^vo words 
guide you to the first steps of success? 
And let me teil you, my boy, they are the 
only guide. You can't pick up money 



132 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

any more and become rieh in a day. Al- 
addin's wonderfiil lamp is a thing of the 
past. Dollars;, for some reason or other^ 
have ceased growing on buslies or rolling 
up hill, and the only way for you and me 
to win success is to go to work with a 
will, and, if we remember that first step, 
success will be ours. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 133 
A LüIIaby 

Come to me, little one, 

God knows the tender feet 
Are tired of play. 
Listen ! The breezes come 

To whisper a song, my sweet, 
To close the long day. 

Come to me, little one, 
Let the dear curly head 
Droop to its rest. 
Come, for the day is done; 
God's stars are overhead, 
And God knoweth best. 

Come to me, little one. 
Down in the meadow, 
A lark guards her nest; 
Close where the waters run, 
Hid in the shadows, 
The birds are at rest. 

Come to me, little one, 
A glorious morning 
Will follow the night. 
Time is for sleeping, come ! 
Soon comes the dawning, 
For God doeth right. 



134 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

"Come to me, little one," 
God's voice is calling. 
Daylight is past. 
Come to me, little one, 
Shadows are falling 
And rest comes at last. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 135 

Pretty Dafk I have heard men boast 
that they could go into 
their offices upon the darkest night — a 
night so dark one could not see the point 
of a joke — and pick iip anything they 
wished to find. I have always doubted 
their veracity, but now, to put it plainly, 
I know they lied. I have been convinced 
of that fact ever since the other night. It 
was as black as "a black hen's pocket/' 
assuming that a black hen has a pocket, 
which is, to say the least, hypothetical; 
but it was as dark as the traditional 
"dark horse" at a political Convention. 
It was so dark that I expected every mo- 
ment to fall over it. As the saying is, it 
was as "dark as the ace of spades_," 
though, to my notion, the ten spot would 
be darker. It was as dark as the hallway 
where the young lady says good night to 
her best young man. Indeed, if there 
were any darker comparison which I 
could call to mind; I should use it. Yet I 
was all confidence. I knew just where I 



136 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

had left that magazine lipon my desk. I 
had only to avoid the long table as I 
came in tlirougli the back door^ walk 
straiglit across to the desk and pick up 
the book. I missed the table all riglit and 
started out briskly for the desk. I knew 
the floor was clear. I remembered Walk- 
ing out that way wlien I went home. I 
could see the bare floor all the way — in 
my mind's eye. It was this certainty 
which made the shock all the greater 
when it came. I remember that my shin 
Struck the iron-legged stool just as I was 
proceeding with the utmost confidence. 
That stool has a top of oak plank two 
feet long and is heavier than honeymoon 
bread. I didn't swear, but the dull thud 
of that shin striking that oak plank 
comes back to me in my dreams even yet. 
I sat down and nursed that leg, while all 
the time I feit a bunch growing as large 
as a goose egg. That bunch grew like a 
presidential boom, and all the time I sat 
there thinking of men who said they 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 137 

could go to their offices on the darkest 
nights and find anything. Of course they 
could. Any fool could. I found some- 
thing, too. The difficulty is to avoid 
finding something. I liave often noted 
the fact that, if there is but one chair in 
the room a man will find it, unexpectedly, 
in the dark, and if but one tack upon the 
floor, he will find it in the dark, if he is 
barefooted. But as for a man finding 
what he is hunting^ that is another mat- 
ter; 



138 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

News I often wonder why it is 

that a flurry in yester- 
day's wheat market is of so much more 
interest to the average man than an ac- 
count of a battle of a hiindred years ago, 
even thoiigh he has not read of either 
event before. Surely, the battle was the 
more important oecurrence, and perhaps 
is having a much greater effeet in his 
life. Yet we are so anxious to read only 
the latest, that the flurry in wheat is like 
a penny close to the eye — it obseures the 
sun. It was Charles Dudley Warner, I 
think, who teils how his neighbor sat be- 
fore the fire for one whole winter's even- 
ing, enjoying the news, until he read of a 
man dying of sunstroke^, and as that 
seemed out of place in February, he 
glanced at the date and found the paper 
was six months old, Yet why should that 
make him throw the paper into the fire 
in a fit of anger? He had never heard of 
the poor man who died of heat, and the 
question of just when the event happened 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 139 

could have no possible bearing on him 
one way or the other. I tliink too many of 
US have acquired what may be termed the 
newspaper habit — that of literally de- 
vouring all kinds of news without an en- 
deavor at sifting out the useless items — 
just swallowing the whole newspaper — 
just as the boa constrictor swallowed his 
blanket — leaving the latest suicide inex- 
tricably mixed with the president's mes- 
sage^ and the whole mass impossible of 
mental digestion. I sometimes hear peo- 
ple boast that they never read fiction, 
that it is a waste of time, that it is ruin- 
ous to the memory, and then I see them 
read the daily paper from start to finish^ 
and the next day they could not teil a 
Word they have read to save their souls. 
I am no defender of poor fiction. Indeed, 
an excess of fiction^ like an overdose of 
pastry, will soon ruin the mental diges- 
tion. But who ever forgot Little Neil 
after having read "The Old Curiosity 
Shop/' or who can forget "Jean Val 



140 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Jean?" They are like good friends. The 
man who eschews all fiction, because of 
the traditional dime novel, is as 
unfortunate as he who refuses to 
make friends with mankind because 
of the treachery of one, Judas Is- 
cariot. I have noticed tliat the man 
who reads his newspaper as if anx- 
ious to realize large dividends by devour- 
ing every word is always the same indi- 
vidual who receives the least benefit from 
his paper, and who hasn't brains enough 
to appreciate good fiction if he should 
read it. One good article in a daily pa- 
per, read and digested, is of more benefit 
than a thirty-page Sunday edition run 
through one's mind like pork through a 
sausage mill. There are but few good 
readers either of fiction or of facts; but 
bear in mind: when you hear a man say 
that he never reads fiction and another 
that he never reads newspapers, you may 
rate them both as mentally unbalanced. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 141 

Some People vs*Now, tliere are in this 
Other People world some people, and 
then again tliere are 
other people, and some people do one 
thing and other people do another thing, 
and you cannot always teil what anybody 
eise would do. And sometimes you be- 
come smart and think you know a thing 
or two about what the other fellow will 
do, but you don't. It is just like betting 
on a horse. It does not make any differ- 
ence which horse you choose, the other 
horse will win. And that is the way when 
you begin speculating on human nature. 
It is more uncertain than wheat, more un- 
stable than Alaska copper Stocks. It is 
the worst kind of gambling. Millions 
speculate and lose, and yet people take it 
as a matter of course. It does not make 
so much difference when an old maid 
speculates — she hasn't much to lose, any- 
way. But the bachelor girls will gamble 
and stake their whole happiness upon 
some young rascal's developing into a re- 



142 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

spectable man^ when there is about as 
much chance for him as there is f or a pig- 
weed to develop into a turnip. And later 
she stays at home and cries, while Alger- 
non has a good time playing seven-up 
with the boys. Then there is the nice 
young man, who has gone to Sunday 
school all his life and read Sunday school 
literature, where the hero is pale, or liver- 
colored, and who gives his bims to the 
starving poor, who worship him. This 
good young man must gamble in human 
nature, and he stakes his future on a blue- 
eyed maiden who droops beside him and 
is coy and afraid to let him steal a kiss. 
And when he does he imagines she thinks 
he is brave, while she is really laughing 
at him all the while. And when the hap- 
py event is over the coy and modest maid- 
en takes the Sunday school boy in charge. 
His hair grows thin, and his Shoulders 
droop. He soon begins every sentence 
with an apology and ends it in a whisper, 
and there it is. You can't teil what peo- 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 143 

ple will do. This gambling in human 
natura is a dangerous thing. For tliere 
are some people, and then, again^ there 
are other people; and some people do one 
thing, and others do another, and you 
cannot teil just what anybody will do. 



144 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

Abotit Don't put up your um- 

Umbrellas brella, my boy, don't put 

up your umbrella every 
time a little moral shower threatens to do 
you good. You know there are some peo- 
ple who always go around with their um- 
brellas up, and every time tlie minister 
says anything they nod and 1mg 
themselves and remark when they 
get home how that sermon just 
fitted some people they know. A 
little soaking up, my boy, will do you 
good, especially if it reaches your heart. 
Now, a boy's heart is a sort of sole leather 
arrangement, hard to reach and harder 
yet to penetrate, but when you finally get 
to the core, it is all right. But these moral 
umbrellas are nuisances. They hide God's 
sunlight from the very hearts that need it 
raost. Just the moment a shaft of God's 
truth comes earthward, up go the umbrel- 
las, and it is all lost. I sometimes won- 
der if there ever was any one who was 
really convinced that he was really a sin- 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 145 

ner. There is always a good reason for 
my own actions^ but why did the other 
fellow do so badly? There are millions 
of sinners on the earth, but they all be- 
long to the "other fellow" class. We say 
we are all sinners, because the catechism 
so teaches, but we use a mental reserva- 
tion. We put up our little moral umbrel- 
las and get off witli a mere dampness at 
the very worst. We peer out from under 
our little umbrellas and wonder how the 
other fellows feel in such a wetting, and 
hope it will do them good. We are aston- 
ished and delighted to see such a down- 
pour and we hope the other fellow is out 
in the shower. And he is, but his little 
umbrella is up, and he is ehuckling to 
himself and wondering how you will take 
it. Take down your umbrellas. God's 
truth was meant for you, as well as for 
the other fellow. If he puts up his um- 
brella, it is none of your business; it is 



146 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

the other fellow who is missing tlie bless- 
ing, not yoii, and you will be the gainer 
in the end if you will let God's sunshine 
and showers into your heart. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 147 

April This is the time, I know 

— God wot we all could 
teil if it were not — when Earth begins 
within her breast to feel the thrill of life 
possessed by bulb and rootlet; when the 
boys are filled with new and unguessed 
joys, which like the sap of maples rise and 
overflow; when winter dies, and in his 
death, with rain and flood, he leaves a 
legacy of mud; when robins come and 
thrushes mate, and youngsters hang 
about and wait to see the girls safe home 
from school, and grin, and spoon, and 
play the fool. The girls have feit within 
their veins the thrill of INIother Nature's 
pains, and, like the boys, they smile and 
blush, and simmer down like common 
mush, and think from love their hearts 
will bleed, while 'tis a tonic that they 
need. Now by the streams the flowers 
blow, and there with haste the maidens 
go to find the flowers and shake their 
curls — the boys go, too, to find the girls. 
It is the time — but why proceed to teil 



148 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

of every trifling deed, the languid eye, 
the blushing clieek, the faltering step, 
the aspect meek? They all proclaim, 
both far and near, the simple fact that 
spring is here. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 149 

Sunshine There is plenty of sun- 

shine f or us all, if we will 
only take it. God pours it down all 
around us. It gilds the whole earth, it 
is free, it is wholesome, it will dispel dark 
fancies and mean thoughts, and envy, 
and hate, and malice. It is God's great 
remedy. Biit too many of us close the 
Windows and the doors of our hearts. 
We carefully fill up the ehinks and the 
crannies, and we close the shutters, lest 
a ray of pure sunlight should enter. 
Others of us are like the old woman in 
the Scandinavian legend, who labored 
from morning tili night carrying sun- 
shine into her house in a sieve. You 
can't do it, my dear friend, you can't do 
it. There never was a sieve woven fine 
enough with theological dogmas or hu- 
man creeds to carry the sunshine of 
God's love into the depths of any dark- 
ened soul. Take up the the ax of kind- 
ness and batter holes through the walls 
of indifference, and the pure, golden sun- 



160 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

sliine will stream into the dark recess and 
light up the darkest nooks and corners 
tili every bit of the lonely heart glows 
and shines in the radiance of the heav- 
enly light. Batter down the walls^, don't 
build them up. Do not raise the walls 
with the stones of envy and of evil 
speaking. A very little gossip^ thought- 
lessly told, will hide from our hearts 
whole streams of the holy light. Don't 
build up the walls with frivolous speak- 
ing, with immodest words, with irrever- 
ent words, with unkindness. with un- 
thoughtfulness of others, and then try 
to bring God's sunshine into our hearts 
by some poor little sieve of a church 
creed. Churches are all right; church 
creeds are all right. But God's love is 
greater than either. You don't need any 
sieve to carry it into your hearts. Open 
the doors, and tear down the barriers, 
and it will stream in, and all will be 
warmth and light where before was 
darkness. 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 151 

The Coming: Spring does not begin 
of Spring with tlie first day of 

March. Neither can you 
depend upon its arrival with the vernal 
equinox. Those things will do for as- 
tronomerS;, but not for tlie use of every 
day men, who wish to know when spring 
will really appear. When you come 
home to dinner and find your wife un- 
easy^ a few carpet samples in one corner 
of the room and a roll of paper on the 
Center table, you may entertain suspi- 
cions that spring is on the way. Next 
day you find a clothes line, three papers 
of tacks, a hatchet, a broom and a tub 
neatly piled in the woodshed. These are 
advance guards, wafted in by the first 
breath of the vernal season. A mop, a 
dust pan, a water pail, a screw driver and 
a carpet stretcher are soon added to the 
pile, and you may know that on the mor- 
row the celebration of the arrival of 
spring will duly begin. If you are a wise 
man, you will have business out of town 



152 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

for a few days; if you are not, you will 
await the Coming celebration with dire 
misgivings. In the morning a veritable 
cyclone takes possession of the house. 
Pictures are whirled from the walls, 
stoves are triindled into the yard, carpets 
thrust through the Windows, and chaos 
reigns supreme. Sticks flop against the 
rugs across the new clothes line; the 
wind blows merrily through the gaping 
Windows. Buckets and tubs and mops 
come into play. It's "water, water every- 
where, but not a drop to drink." You 
are certain that every bit of furniture in 
the house has been ruined, and you go to 
your business with a sinking heart. For 
a week spring is busy getting settled in 
her new quarters, tili finally you come 
home in the evening and find the rugs 
all down, the Windows bright and clean, 
closed and in their right minds. And 
everything eise is looking precisely as it 
did before the fray. The wife is getting 
supper with the satisfied air of one who is 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 153 

conscious of duty done^ and everything is 
serene. Spring has come, and you may 
once more draw a long breath and enjoy 
life. 



154 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

The Last For a week we have been 

Backlo^ reveling in sunshine and 

warmth. It is spring. 
Leaves are budding on the Maryland 
poplars. People are making gardens. 
Then comes a clear, cool day. The sun 
sets red behind the wooded hüls. There 
is more than a hint of frost in the air. 
You close the Windows that have been 
openly inviting the weather, you enjoy 
the warm tea for your supper and remark 
that a fire would feel good. You light 
the lamp in the parlor and then slip away 
to the woodshed to find something to 
Start a litle blaze. And there luck is 
with you. As you gather your handful 
of kindling, you discover, hidden behind 
the rubbish, a little backlog, just right 
for an April fire. The flames are soon 
merrily dancing in the fireplace, and you 
sit back to enjoy the last of the half-year 
reveries. You remember, so many years 
ago, sitting in the firelight and dream- 
ing, dreaming of the summer days of life 



WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 155 

tliat were about to open. In the glowing 
embers were Castles^ turrets and towers 
that were shaping themselves for. your 
delectable fiiture. The turrets and tow- 
ers crumbled into ashes and are gone. 
Not many of the dreams have come true. 
But the dreams themselves are not gone. 
They still gleam and glimmer in your 
memory, and even the heat and toil of the 
Coming day will not cause them to vanish. 
You remember now stories of other gen- 
erations who dreamed before the open 
fires — other generations^ back and back 
and back, until you imagine you can hear 
the crackle of the evening fire before 
which skin-clad figures huddled for 
warmth — and dreamed. Perhaps they 
saw Castles in the flames, and at last their 
dreams are true. Who knows what stuff 
dreams are made of? Perhaps they are 
gathered by angel hands and kept in the 
strong boxes of eternity for the beautifi- 
cation of worlds unknown. But the flame 
Castles quiver and languish. A heap of 



156 WHILE THE FIRE BURNS 

white ash is all that is left. A breath of 
chill air comes from some corner. Our 
little time, while the fire burned, is ended^ 
and it is time to say: "Good Night." 



LIBRARY 



CONGRESS 




i 



Wif 



!li 






^^Ml^fM'ä':. 






m 



f^:f;;;fi;: 



^$m 



;i>^i: ':(;; 



. 01m 



' ' illl 









^' -V: 



